


From Thy Bounty

by feyrelay, ibby (ibbywrites)



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (20k words of foreplay and 13k words of porn lmao), Body Worship, Dirty Talk, Food Porn, Hyper-sensitivity, Jealousy Kink, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, NOT sub/dom, Praise Kink, Rimming, Sexting, Size Kink, Slow Burn, Starker Bingo 2019, UST, peter is 19, seduction by proxy of food lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-06-09 19:33:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19482553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feyrelay/pseuds/feyrelay, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ibbywrites/pseuds/ibby
Summary: COMPLETE.Tony’s eyes are always dark, but now there's almost no iris left. He looks hollowed out. There’s something terribly hungry there, despite the feast they've filled themselves on.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starker Bingo 2019 fill for 'praise kink'
> 
> This is all Jon Favreau's fault and I refuse to take responsibility for this garbage. If you have watched episode 2 of The Chef Show you will know exactly what this is about. If not... go watch it. 
> 
> Thank you to my co-conspirator FeyRelay for pushing this along out of its drabble infancy, adding some of the spicy dialogue, and beta-ing the ever-loving shit out of this.
> 
> Also, for Chapter 1, Fey put together a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5v5OIxK2vNk0DUkLPiGTIw?si=od7gY6lZTnSKhjwpw_aZUQ) and the great moodboard below.

‘Team building exercise’ is what is entered on the schedule that resides in Peter's custom-built Starkphone. Since the team reunited, there's been weekly training sessions and strategy meetings every few weeks. A few (pretend to) drag their heels (Tony), but Peter can tell by the sheen in his eyes when they divide off into tactical squads and pairs that, yeah, he's totally into this.

The vague wording is new, though, which leads Peter to believe it's not another training session or the like. He scrolls ahead and find several more scheduled roughly every ten to fourteen days.

His queries to those he encounters during breakfast that morning are met with similar bemusement and shrugs. Those present at the compound collect that afternoon in the main gathering space, waiting for some sort of clarification. Peter waits expectantly for Steve, who shakes his head at the various raised eyebrows, then for Tony, who ambles in last with a nonchalant shrug, one corner of his mouth twisting in amusement. They mill around for a short time, about eight of them, until the doors separating the Avengers’ living quarters from the rest of the compound swing open to reveal Happy.

It feels a bit like a school trip, except instead of a janky school bus they're loaded into a fucking private jet, all cream and beige, plush seats and gold finishes.

The flight to the city is short, filled mostly with Happy being completely impervious to various good-natured interrogation techniques regarding their destination. Peter sits across the aisle from Happy and Tony, enjoying watching Tony try to eke some answers out of him ("I am your boss, you know." "When's the last time you got a raise?" "I'll give you my new Audi. No, not that one. The orange one. I didn't say newest, I said new! Well you can paint it, I don't care...").

Instead of a bus, they're ferried to their destination in a small fleet of discrete black cars, Happy leading the caravan with Tony and Peter on familiar turf on the back bench of the car. They drive deep into the 'burbs of Queens, skirting well past Forest Hills and across Whitestone Bridge into the Bronx. They end up ejected from the vehicle on an entirely nondescript sidewalk, joined shortly by the rest of the group who look around with similar levels of curiosity.

"In we go."

Happy ushers them through the nearby doorway of what turns out to be a cramped restaurant, which, judging by the mishmash of decor, serves some sort of Latin fusion cuisine. Several tables are already shoved together along the far back wall of the rectangular room—close to the kitchen—for them.

Happy takes pride of place at the head of the table, Peter and Tony flanking him on either side.

"Welcome to your first team-building outing." The din from the kitchen makes it necessary to raise his voice, but also provides an amount of privacy from the excited audience of the restaurant's other patrons.

"This is it? We're having a group dinner?" calls Sam from the opposite end of the table.

"This is number one of many. Well. Two, if you want to count where this idea came from." Happy nods to Tony, who glances at Steve and Nat– "Shawarma," they chorus.

Happy does the honors of ordering for the group. "It's part of the exercise," he shouts along the table. "You're here to try new things. Together. It's _team building_."

Peter sees Tony mutter something under his breath, too softly to make out, but the man grins wryly to himself, eyes down as he unfolds his napkin gently into his lap. His eyes catch Peter watching him when he glances up, and the grin deepens as he tilts his head and shrugs wordlessly, gesturing vaguely at their surroundings and slouching back into the cushioned bench running along the wall.

The food, when it comes, is delicious, and any protestations regarding lack of input on selections is quickly and unanimously laid to rest within the first few bites. It seems to be predominantly seafood- and vegetable-based dishes, fresh and perfectly braised with delicious herbs and spices that call to mind salty, sunlit coastlines and a slower pace of living. Peter tries several things he's never had before: ceviche, paella, salt-baked dorada, _pulpeiras_. His plate seems to be piled much higher than everyone else's despite not having served himself yet at all. Happy keeps spooning ladles of food on faster than he can clear space for new dishes, passing them along the opposite way towards Tony after taking care of himself and Peter.

He's so focused on getting through his plate and still making sure he takes enough time to properly taste everything heaped upon it that Peter hardly keeps track of the call-and-response snippets of conversation swirling around him across the table. He's at least made a decent dent in his portion when he finally glances up long enough to find Tony's eyes on him as Peter sucks up a long tentacle of _pulpeiras_ spaghetti-style.

Unsure if he's being unknowingly rude, Peter blushes, ducks his head, and instinctively covers his mouth with his hand, working hard to chew and clear his mouth. When he glances back up Tony has an amused smile quirking the corners of his mouth.

"Good?" Peter could make out the word without hearing it, as Tony clearly intends, though Peter's enhanced hearing affords him the knowledge of the low warmth in Tony's voice.

Peter nods, finally working his mouth clear. He points his fork down to the ceviche, his favourite thing on the plate, and mouths 'oh my god' back at Tony who nods in agreement.

***

A week and a half later the cars drop them in Manhattan, in the middle of Harlem at a Southern fried chicken hole-in-the-wall that gets some dubious looks from a couple people, but Tony steps in, hands up, placating. "Ok, this one I can personally vouch for. It's amazing."

It is, too. There's hardly any room to sit but it hardly matters. Half of them are squished into the lone available booth with the rest standing, balancing paper plates in one hand and fried chicken in the other after the woman at the counter gave Steve an earful following his polite request for a knife and fork.

Peter is scrunched into the tiny corner at the edge of the booth, trying to keep hold of his plate while avoiding getting crushed behind the swinging door to the kitchen. Eventually there is a small ruckus within the booth and then a hand is pulling Peter down by the back of his jacket until he is balanced just barely on the edge of the cushion, pressed knee-to-hip against Tony who settles his arm along the wooden backing on the booth to allow room for Peter to lean slightly forward over his plate, catching the crumbs from the breading as he crunches through.

Finishing his chicken, Peter settles against the back of the booth, shoulder tucked under Tony's raised arm, and basks in the warm glow of the group whose good spirits are obvious as they chuckle at Thor trying to keep the breadth of his shoulders out of everyone's way. During the distraction, Peter feels the hand resting behind him on the booth slide easily onto his shoulder, giving it a small squeeze. He glances up at its owner, but Tony's attention is clearly elsewhere, face lit up as he laughs at whatever Thor is doing across the table.

Tony's fingers sweep back and forth along his shoulder, from neck to arm, a gentle rub that's too firm to be teasing. Peter begins to lose track of what's happening around him, head lolling just slightly towards Tony, elongating his trapezius muscle as Tony's fingers smooth along it.

He tries to smarten up, pay attention, when he notices the group's attention swing in his direction as Tony launches into some anecdote about the time he wanted to impress Pepper and bought an entire restaurant on the spot after forgetting to make reservations at the extremely exclusive hotspot. But Tony's fingers idly slide to the back of Peter’s neck, squeezing slightly, and it's... Peter might be technically superhuman, but clearly not enough to both maintain conversational focus and endure a public pseudo-neck-massage from the man he's been jerking off to since he was old enough _to_ jerk off.

It takes him more than a second to realise their plates are all emptied and the movement and jostling means he needs to let their side out of the booth. Peter mutters an apology that nobody seems to really notice, collecting his plate. The fingers on his nape slide briefly upwards into his hair, giving it an affectionate ruffle, and then Peter is released. He slides out of the booth and makes way for the others to exit, Tony sliding out after him with a wink. Peter tries not to parse out its meaning. Is it flirtatious? Friendly? Mentorly? Colleague-y? _I-know-you're-going-to-shove-your-hand-down-your-pants-as-soon-as-you're-alone-y_?

***

A week later, they end up in Brooklyn at a vegetarian restaurant—that Happy makes them promise to give a fair chance to—when they are dumped on the sidewalk, to a few groans. Peter himself has no qualms; MJ has been a vegetarian as long as he's known her and he's been to enough veggie places to know he'll like it. Plus, even though it's only their third restaurant, he trusts Happy implicitly.

Surprisingly, Steve doesn't complain one bit about the restaurant being vegetarian. "What? I'll eat anything from Brooklyn," he shrugs good-naturedly.

"Oh, is that so?" Nat says slyly, clearly thinking of Barnes.

Steve's scandalised face has Peter laughing like a loon before they even get inside.

It turns out to be vegetarian dim sum, served family-style in large plates around a big circular table with a lazy Susan in the middle to avoid the need for passing dishes. Peter is not well-versed in Chinese food beyond the little shop across the street from his and May's apartment, which caters more to the General Tao & ginger beef clientele, so he waits ‘til everyone has their plates filled, watching what goes by.

Eventually, he reaches out towards a plate of some sort of vegetable dish, but the spinning section is quickly turned so that a different plate (fried pepper tofu) is in front of him. He glances around to check who's still filling their plate and finds Tony's eyes on him again, with the man sitting directly opposite, fingers curled around the edge of the turntable. Tony nudges his chin towards Peter and gives a nod– _try it_.

Peter spears a few of the tofu rectangles onto his own plate. Tony's eyes don't leave him as he tries it, bright pepperiness dissolving into a salty wash as the tofu melts in his mouth. Tony raises an eyebrow, a query, and Peter nods– _good_.

Tony continues to glance in his direction, watchful, as he half-heartedly engages in fringes of the conversation bouncing around between Nat, Bruce, and Steve on his left. As soon as Peter is finished with the tofu, the lazy Susan swings around again, this time bringing a platter of garlic-glazed asparagus in front of Peter. He shifts a few spears onto his plate and politely knifes one in half, bite-sized, and tries it. The garlic and soy make his mouth water, the asparagus just the right amount of crunchy. Tony's attention is back fully on him, so Peter lifts his fingers, touching thumb and pointer together– _perfect_.

It goes on like this; he tries mushroom buns, sticky rice wraps, veggie dumplings, stir fried noodles, ginger broccoli, garlic bok choy, Szechuan cucumber salad. Tony avoids a number of dishes, seeming to know exactly what Peter will like. Peter's self-conscious at first, his reactions being watched so closely from across the table, under such scrutiny while everyone chatters around them obliviously.

It feels... intimate. Tony's eyes from this distance are dark and impossible to read. Peter tells himself not to project– this is just Tony being mentorly, looking out for his young protégé. And Peter knows, by now, that Tony likes providing, likes to spoil his friends and loved ones. There's nothing... deeper going on here. The mantra doesn't do much to diminish the blush staining his cheeks, but Peter thinks he can probably get away with blaming it on the chili flakes in the cucumber salad.

***

Just over a week after the vegetarian dim sum comes fire-ovened Neapolitan pizza from another tiny hole-in-the-wall, this time only two neighbourhoods over from Peter's in Queens. Tony complains briefly ("You know I could get us a table at the best pizzeria in New York, right?"), which Happy swiftly shuts down ("This _is_ the best pizzeria in New York. And you know that's not the point.") and they shuffle inside, the group larger than the past several dinners. They have to split between two tables across the aisle from each other. Peter tries not to feel disappointed when he ends up at the opposite table from Tony.

Peter is scanning his menu when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He fishes it out, screen lit up with a text from Tony:

[Image description: The text message reads 'stick with the classics, kid. try the margherita with the bufala D.O.P- you'll like it more than the fior di latte']

Peter fires back:

[Image description: The two replies read 'I know my pizza, Mister Stark.' and 'I'm from Queens, remember?']

(He gets the bufala margherita– but he was going to anyways, ok?)

The conversation lulls for a while—and the texts stop—while everyone digs in. Peter practically has a life-affirming experience with his particular pie, safeguarding it from almost everyone else, unwilling to share with anyone except Happy. He’s not sure what a ‘serving size’ of pizza is for a superhero, other than himself, that is, and he’s not willing to risk giving up more than a slice or two of this deliciousness. Peter moans as he bites into a burst of fresh basil, then his phone buzzes a moment later.

[Image description: Tony's message says 'scale of 10, how bad do you want to fuck that pizza?']

 _‘Uhm. Not 0?'_ , Peter turns in his seat and mouths at Tony, well past caring. Tony shoots him an amused sort of look and it seems to hardly matter if anyone else is confused by Peter’s non-verbal non-sequitur, with _that_ gaze on him.

As they're finishing up the last slices, Thor doing a considerable amount of the grunt work, the chef—a short man with a round belly and a heavily accented voice, face full of kind lines and bags—comes by their table, clapping Happy on the shoulder, clearly on friendly terms.

What Peter is definitely not prepared for is Tony sidling up beside them, two chairs away from Peter, and poaching the chef's attention by breaking into what is clearly perfectly-accented Neapolitan. The chef is briefly shocked before a grin lights up his sun-weathered face and he grasps Tony by the forearm, shaking him happily and breaking into conversation like a horse out of the gate, mile-a-minute. Tony keeps up, fluent, second-nature.

Peter is so taken off guard that he visibly starts when Happy leans across—behind Wanda's chair—and says to Peter, "His mother's side is from Naples. He loves to show it off– a party trick, y'know?"

Peter nods mutely, eyes still caught on Tony volleying back and forth with the chef, with his face alight, hands waving to match those of the chef, much more expressive than he usually is. Happy chuckles, withdrawing back onto his own seat, clapping Peter gruffly on the shoulder.

"You'll catch flies there, kid."

Peter's teeth click together audibly and he squares his shoulders front, looking for something else to focus on. He drains his glass of water, which is immediately refilled by the waiter making a pass around their table, and drains that too.

" _Allasca, guagliò._ " The voice comes from right next to his ear, low and lilting, accompanied by two palms resting on his shoulders.

Peter thinks it's pretty unfair that after two large glasses of water his throat should be capable of becoming Sahara-dry. He chokes slightly, vocal chords rasping shut, and abruptly stands.

"I gotta– bathroom."

***

Two weeks later, their group is a very small fraction of its usual size due to an envoy to Wakanda leaving behind only Peter, Bruce, Nat, and Tony. Happy keeps it from feeling like some sort of bizarre ill-advised double date, though the setting doesn't help. Being such a manageable group size this time, Tony has managed to coerce Happy into breaking his budget rules and bringing them to a small, but very well-known, French restaurant.

Peter would generally consider himself pretty well-rounded in terms of palate, but classical French food is something he knows little about and has even less experience in actually consuming. Happy flat-out refuses the private room the maitre'd offers Tony ("That is NOT what this is about!!"), and they end up in a sheltered corner tucked out-of-view from the front door and sidewalk-facing window. It's the nicest place Peter's ever been, though it isn't at all ostentatious.

The menu is all in French, of course, and while Peter's Spanish allows him to pick out a few familiar-enough terms, he's at a bit of a loss. He glances across the table at Bruce and Natasha—and Happy at the head again—scanning their menus with obvious understanding, and Peter feels unexpectedly embarrassed; he doesn't belong with these people, these incredibly smart, well-rounded, worldly people, who contrast with Peter, who has been to... New York, Washington, Berlin and, well... _space_. So... there's _that_.

He's brought out of his thoughts by a hand placed on the centre of his back, palm warm through the layers of his shirt and blazer. Peter looks up at Tony who is smiling at him kindly.

"Want some help?" he murmurs, quiet, but plenty loud enough for Peter.

"Please," Peter breathes, relieved.

Tony runs a finger down the short menu, explaining as he goes. "Soup, seafood, chicken, duck, beef. What's your preference for tonight?"

"I'm supposed to try something new, right?" Peter says, hesitant. "I guess I've never had duck before?"

Tony levels him with an astonished look that Peter can't quite classify as genuine or sarcastic. "Never?"

Peter rolls his eyes and knocks his shoe against Tony's under the table. "Yeah, yeah, you're rich, heaven forbid we forget."

He ends up letting Tony order from the waiter for him, French spilling from his mouth in a way that makes Peter's knees press tightly together under the écru tablecloth. The hand returns to his back as Tony refers to him, giving his order, and stays there, not rubbing or moving at all, just a solid warmth against Peter's spine. Conversation is light and easy between the small number, easy to follow, easy to be heard. Peter prefers to listen unless he's asked something, though each of his colleagues makes a point of including him.

Nobody comments on Tony's arm extending into Peter's space– it seems incidental, idle. A server brings a plate of bread and butter and another brings the wine, offers Tony the first try of the Bordeaux as Happy samples the Chardonnay they ordered.

Peter notices that despite being discreet and deferential, the server’s eyes do linger momentarily on Tony's arm while she waits for them to okay the selection, after which she snaps into action, filling the glasses. She's filled his with the Bordeaux that will pair with his _confit de canard_ before Peter realises what's happened. Dining with Tony Stark, Peter muses, is quite a bit different than having larb with Aunt May.

Once the server has left, Peter offers his glass up, pushing it gently away from himself towards the middle of the table. Nat sniffs, "Oh, go on Peter."

Bruce nods, as does Happy. "Live a little." Happy raises his own glass slightly.

Tony pushes the wine glass back towards Peter's place setting, fingers delicate around the thin stem. "You're twenty in less than two months. Feel free– I'm in no position to judge a little supervised and controlled underage drinking."

The thing is, Peter has never really drunk before, not wine and not anything else. Like, at all. Aunt May might be cool about some things, but underage drinking was one of her hard lines. And, well, Ned didn't drink, and neither did MJ, so... he just hasn't yet. It isn't that weird. But it feels good to be treated like an adult, like a peer. So Peter grins, wrapping his fingers underneath the bowl of the glass, and raises it, meeting the others around the table with melodic clinking.

" _Santé,_ " Tony drawls, smirking, and they all drink.

Peter already feels the effects of the wine by the time their plates come. He figured this would happen– accelerated metabolism and all that. He didn't think it would be this pronounced after one glass of wine, though, and he's glad for his duck, glad for the richness of it and the accompanying potatoes. He’s glad for the hand that remains, grounding, on his back while Tony eats his _bouillabaisse_ one-handed, though it has drifted slowly from mid- to low-back, settling within a curve like it belongs there.

A friendly argument strikes up between Nat and Happy with Bruce playing both mediator and moderator, and Tony takes the opportunity to lean in, hand making small circles along Peter's spine. "Do you like it?"

"Y–yeah. It's amazing. So good." Between the rich food, the wine, and Tony's cologne wafting into his personal space and the soothing heat pressing intimately into his back, Peter feels like he's melting.

"And the Bordeaux? You like that, too?"

"Yes, I think? It's a little... tart?"

Tony chuckles. Peter's hearing picks up the bass in it, rolling and low. "That would be the tannin."

Peter nods like he knows what Tony's talking about.

"Would you like to try the Chardonnay?"

"Maybe–... maybe in a little bit? After?" Peter nods down to his plate, not far from finished.

"You should try the _bouillabaisse_. Have you had it before?"

Peter shakes his head.

"You'll love it. Try."

For a moment Peter is convinced that Tony is about to hand-feed him a spoonful of the seafood stew but manages not to embarrass himself by opening his mouth, instead taking the proffered spoon, fastidiously ignoring the way their fingers brush warmly together in the process.

Tony's right; Peter loves it. It must show on his face because Tony's laughing again, that low, private laugh. He hands the spoon back and Tony scoops out a mussel and a sprig of fennel, extending it towards Peter again.

"Have some more. The mussels are incredible."

Peter feels a bit like he's spinning out of control. Sensory overload. He takes the spoonful, hands it back while letting the mouthful sit on his tongue– flavours of tomato, fennel, clean seafood, salty and bright. Tony's attention is still entirely on him, watching his face, the way Peter's tongue traces the corner of his mouth, catching the droplets left there from the bottom of the spoon, the way Peter's eyes fall half-shut in enjoyment.

"More?" Tony asks, spoon poised for a different selection of ingredients.

"Jesus, Tony, slow your roll. You're gonna give the poor kid a heart attack or a stomachache, one or the other," Happy laughs from Tony's right. He gives Peter a commiserating, but friendly, smile.

It's a good thing. Peter needed it– it's a good thing to be brought back down to earth. Otherwise.... otherwise what? He doesn't even know where that was going, would have chalked it up entirely to his own delusions and the wine if not for Happy's comment. He turns down the third spoonful, wants to make sure he finishes his own plate, thank you, Mr Stark.

Peter waits an appropriate, non-suspicious amount of time and excuses himself to the bathroom. Looks at himself in the mirror and tells himself under no circumstances is he about to go into one of the stalls and fist his cock to fantasies of Tony Stark hand-feeding him, attentive and intent.

He manages it, though it takes several minutes of willing his erection down enough to just simply relieve himself, and yeah maybe he has a hard time looking at himself in the mirror as he washes his hands but he still counts it as a win. He feels better by the time he returns to his seat. Clearer. Peter settles back in and finishes his duck, taking advantage of the conversation happening that he is not required to be a part of.

He's polishing off the last of the potatoes when Tony places the hand that had spent most of the evening residing on Peter's back on his thigh. The touch is light, almost polite. Probably friendly— _hey can I have your attention?_ —he's a tactile person. Always has been. Peter knows.

And the intent _is_ to catch his attention, Peter processes, as Tony slyly pushes his glass of Chardonnay towards Peter. The server must have been by to refill while he was in the bathroom.

"Try this instead. Less tannin, a little fruitier."

Peter thinks he should probably quit while he's ahead.

Be smart, Peter. Be _good_.

He takes the wine, gives it a testing sip after swirling it and smelling like he saw Happy and Tony do earlier, hopes he's doing it right. Or at least not embarrassing himself.

Tony's right (of course he is)– Peter likes it better than the Bordeaux. It's dry, but has a distinct taste of apple and vanilla layered in.

He glances over the rim of the glass to find Tony regarding him again. This time the gaze is undeniably warm. He's amused, obviously, yes; fond, sure. Peter takes a second drink and sets the glass on the table. The hand on his thigh flexes minutely, palm splaying further outwards before settling more weighted onto the clean stretch of Peter's trousers over his quad.

"You can finish it if you want."

Peter shakes his head. "Nah. I'm a lightweight. I'm good. But thanks," he offers, with a smile.

Tony shrugs easily, sipping from the glass instead, attention turning back outwards. Peter doesn't think about how Tony placed his mouth over the exact same spot Peter had drunk from. The hand is still on his thigh, thumb rubbing lazily back and forth across the seam along his outer thigh.

The easy confidence with which Tony does, well, literally everything, Peter thinks, makes it impossible to decipher his intentions. Where this would be obvious—forward—for pretty much anyone else, Tony's palm spread across the breadth of Peter's thigh still seems very much up for interpretation to Peter. It seems perfectly plausible that Tony Stark is the sort of man who is so self-assured that a hand on a thigh literally means nothing. Even with the way it—Peter swallows dryly—is moving up slightly, fingers brushing towards his inner thighs.

How far is too far? What height changes 'friendly' to 'flirtatious'? Mentor-ly to intimate?

There is a conversation happening, Peter is aware of this. He couldn't say what it was about on pain of death, but he can see Nat laughing; the crow's feet edging Bruce's eyes are crinkling up. Tony is saying something to Happy. Happy is saying something to Nat. Tony is saying something to Bruce, and all the while his hand is shifting upwards and inwards on Peter's thigh, and he definitely can't miss the way Peter's breath hitches as Tony's middle finger finds the inseam of his trousers, the better part of halfway up Peter's thigh.

He definitely doesn't, because his hand immediately squeezes Peter's thigh and retreats downwards, all the way down to Peter's knee where Tony's palm cups around his kneecap, fingers gently scraping up and down below it.

Peter manages to breathe long enough to realise somewhere in the last indeterminable amount of time their plates have been cleared, the wine has been finished, and the hand on his leg withdraws to haggle with Happy over who is paying the bill, hands already opening his wallet, pulling out a card.

They drive back upstate this time, instead of taking the jet. Tony argues, grinning, with Happy most of the ride, sky only darkening late into the evening with early summer. Peter is content to half-listen, watching the city fade away to green, then black. The last half hour slides into comfortable silence as night truly descends. Peter tips his head back to watch the stars through the moon roof overheard, head lolling heavily with the combination of satiation and fatigue. His head bumps Tony's arm, didn't even realise it was stretched along the back. Fingers slide into his hair, familiar this time, easing through and around the curls and waves, carding in and out. Peter doesn't let himself close his eyes, doesn't want to end up falling asleep. (Wants to remember this.)

***

The envoy returns with guests– Nakia, Okoye, and Shuri stopping in for a visit before they head on to the outreach centre in California, in a day or two. Happy lets Tony take the reins on making a reservation that will accommodate their expanded number, which of course means that Tony books out the entirety of Masa for the evening. Happy glares at him through the rearview mirror as they drive from the airport ("NOT the point, Tony,") but even he can't keep the grin off his face as they settle around the large table set up in the centre of the room.

It's a relatively tight squeeze fitting all of them around the table, and Peter hangs back as people arrange themselves, waiting for a spot. He's prodded forward by a familiar hand between his shoulder blades, though, steering him towards the seats beside the chef's prep space. He's hustled into the chair right beside it.

"So you can see. Masa deserves front row seats, and it's your first time," Tony explains as he slides into the chair next to Peter's.

Peter steers his mind away from thinking about _first times_ (it's not, not in _that_ sense, for the record), knowing by now the double entendre would be perfectly intentional. He doesn't give Tony the satisfaction of a blush, shoots him a knowing look before focusing his attention on the sushi master sharpening his knives, laying them out methodically in a row, organising the station in preparation. There's some further settling in, chairs pulled this way and that to make space for all the guests. Peter is wary of encroaching on the chef's space, so he stays put, but Tony's chair ends up nearly right against Peter's, shoulders jostling.

Peter immediately understands what Tony meant by 'front row seats' as the chef begins– it's a show as much as anything else. The group’s chatter lowers to a murmuring hum, the chef describing what he's doing, the assistant a few steps behind him translating for them. It has a lyrical sound, practiced and intentional, a well-rehearsed script. As the translator explains the concept of _shibui_ to their table, Peter feels Tony angle his body for a better view next to him, shoulder that was pressed against his lifting to drop his arm behind the backs of their chairs.

There are over two dozen courses. Peter had figured they were going for a fancy sushi dinner, but he was vastly underestimating. Sometimes the plates come rapid-fire, small, flavour-packed mouthfuls meant to build one after the other. Sometimes it’s more substantial, seeming to hold a certain amount of ceremonial importance. When the dishes come round, Tony returns facing forward, shoulder brushing Peter's in a way that is both comfortable and distracting. Between each course, his arm returns to the back of Peter's chair, though he appears to simply be watching the sushi master avidly.

As the dinner wears on, that hand begins to drift. Again, Peter can't decipher whether it's deliberate or entirely idle, just Tony's tactile habits surfacing. The chairs have low backs, coming up just to the curve above the small of Peter's back, which is where Tony's hand first drifts. Instead of being a solid weight, this time it is rubbing gently, back and forth, in circles, fingers pressing into the notches of Peter's spine.

Peter tries his best to focus on what's happening in front of him, not behind him. His body is slightly angled away from Tony's so he can watch, though with how close their chairs are it almost feels like they are half-spooning, Peter's left shoulder brushing the front of Tony's right at first, and eventually pressing solidly against his pectoral as Tony leans forward to get a better view of the chef's knife technique.

They are at course number 20 when Tony's hand slips into the gap between Peter's back and the chair and under his suit jacket, to rest in the small of his back. Peter feels like his heart is in his throat; he can feel the line of heat where his left side is pressed along Tony, and that hand - _under his clothing_.

 _People don't platonically put their hands under other people's clothes, Peter_ , a voice rings in his ears.

Still, he can't quite make ends of what's going on, his brain seeming to refuse putting two and two together, because the number it comes up with makes **no** sense to Peter.

And yet... _and yet_. And yet Peter can feel the way Tony's fingers are pressing deliberately into the muscled dimples above the swell of his ass, only an inch or two above the waistline of his suit pants (his suit, selected and paid for by the man whose fingers are currently _under_ it).

It's half relief, half torture as the next three courses come in succession and Tony's hand slides out from under Peter's jacket. He stares at it, the way Tony's fingers curl expertly around his chopsticks, thinks about those same fingers curled expertly around any number of Peter's body parts. He knows Tony's noticed him staring, even without the way he smirks and gives the chopsticks a flashy twirl before delving into the bowl of delicate glass noodles.

It only gets worse as dinner ramps up to a close. Tony's hand slides confidently back under the jacket as the dishes are cleared, this time settling in the curve of Peter's waist, smoothing the folds of his shirt with his fingers, almost _petting_. He pulls at Peter's waist, positions him where he wants him, pressing him closer, more fully against him. Peter has to hold his breath against the sound that wants to come out, imagines Tony manhandling him with the same efficient confidence behind closed doors, and wants wants _wants_. He's more than half hard in his suit pants now, grateful for the lip of the table and the soft lighting.

The savoury dishes come to a finish and they end with a delicate procession of desserts, each more beautiful than the last, served in a flurry of masterful plating. Peter immediately misses the heat from where they were all but pressed together, but Tony's right hand immediately returns to Peter's knee, curling around the inside of it and pulling the thigh flush against his own. Peter is sure he should be exhaling steam at this point. He's entirely on autopilot, gives a slightly hysterical internal thanks to May for the years of tiny sushi joints resulting in chopsticks being second nature ( _inappropriate!_ , the voice from before rings, _if Aunt May could see this...!_ ).

Autopilot or not, Peter doesn't miss the way Tony picks up the chopsticks with his left hand, wielding them just as dexterously as he did in his right, and Peter thinks he might evaporate on the spot. The hand around his thigh stays low, but it's no less intimate, the way Tony's fingers curl slightly into the soft skin almost just behind Peter's knee, squeezing, his own thigh a solid strip of heat, pressing and pressing. Outwardly, Tony is focused on his dessert, humming low in appreciation, just loud enough that Peter is sure he's the only one who can hear it, and is sure that also is completely intentional.

The rest of the group are finishing their desserts around them, appreciative noises and compliments filling the air. Tony finishes before Peter, places his chopsticks across the final plate with a punctuative _click_ and stretches, hand slipping up and off Peter's thigh as he rolls his shoulders and neck. Tony slides his chair back, excusing himself, and the familiar weight of his palm cups the back of Peter's neck, squeezing briefly before he wanders off to pay his compliments to the chef.

Peter stays put until the last minute, willing his body back under control, until Steve shoots him a quizzical look and Peter realises he's the only one still sitting, and everyone is beginning to file out. The drive and flight home is boisterous and loud, cars and jet packed with full bellies and good spirits, chatting about their dinner experience.

Peter is shuffled into a different car than Tony this time, and a few rows and an aisle separate them on the jet, but Peter doesn't miss the way Tony's fingers brush his shoulder, lingering, as he walks past him down the aisle several times throughout the short flight.

***

They don't talk about it. Nothing changes, nothing is different outside of their group dinners. Peter begins to worry that he is developing a Pavlovian response every time his calendar dings with the next 'team building exercise'. He's already at the point where he has to make sure he jerks off right before they leave, otherwise he will be hard before they even get to the restaurant.

In the lab, Tony is... well, Peter can't really call it 'professional' because it never really was. Tony is Tony; he’s brilliant, sarcastic, teasing, encouraging, approving. In the gym, Tony's hands never linger when he claps Peter on the shoulder after a clever manoeuvre. He doesn't pull his punches during training simulations. And if his eyes seem to gleam with a little too much approval when Peter solves a problem in the lab or provides the solution to a tactical issue, well, Peter thinks it might have always been there.

But things are kept strictly on the level, above the proverbial belt. There are no sly looks from their teammates, no awkward silences between them, no accidental-not-accidental brushing of hands and shoulders.

And it's messing with Peter's head. It's making him question things. He knows— _knows_ —that it's not.... that something is... that it's _different_. That Tony is _different_ with Peter on these group dinners and that it's different from how he interacts with anyone else that Peter’s ever seen at least. But the days of mentorly fondness in between are such an abrupt, complete 180 that Peter feels like he's going a little (or a lot) crazy. That maybe he's remembering things wrong. That he's overthinking, projecting. It makes each dinner that much more of an event. Anticipatory. He needs to... he needs to calm down, is what he needs to do.

***

They end up next—a more reasonable size of group—at a _truly_ hole-in-the-wall-type little Indian joint on the opposite side of Queens as last time. It's questionable looking, but upon rolling up both Happy and Tony have disclaimers that it's the real deal. What comes across as dingy and rundown on the outside is actually cozy inside, full of eclectic knick-knacks and trinkets from India, a mish-mash of décor and colours. The largest table in the cramped room is waiting for them near the front window. This time Peter doesn't bother with waiting, he slides in along the booth bench fringing the far side of the table after Bucky, and is unsurprised when Tony settles beside him a moment later.

There is a large chalkboard on the far wall that proclaims that it is dosa night, and Peter finally feels in his element. He knows dosas– the special menu that get passed around requires no more than a cursory glance before he passes it on to Tony, who holds his gaze and passes the unopened menu directly along to Rhodey.

Peter is ready as the waiter comes to take their first round of dosa orders. His mouth is opened, the words halfway out his mouth when Tony interrupts, "He'll have the hakka noodle dosa to start. Alu gobi for me."

The waiter is on to Rhodey before Peter can properly sputter out a protest, which is then immediately cut off by Tony ruffling his hair playfully and leaning forward to jump into whatever debate is raging across the table between Thor and Sam.

The first round of dosas arrive and Peter can feel Tony's eyes on him as he takes his first bite, refuses to give him the satisfaction of doing any more than continuing to eat it. It is delicious, of course it is, the noodles are cooked perfectly, the vegetables crunchy but not overly so, the dosa light and fluffy. Peter tries not to let it show on his face, for the sake of his pride, but assumes he's probably sadly transparent in this.

The menu is passed around again, skipping over several people who already have their minds made up. Once the plates are cleared, the waiter returns to take the next round of orders. It's open season this time, as she takes orders at random.

Tony cuts in between the orders, "Onion egg dosa for me. And he'll have the prawn vindaloo," as he nods his head towards Peter.

Peter rounds on Tony this time (he's not sure what's more frustrating: Tony ordering for him or the fact that prawn vindaloo was what he was about to order for himself), giving him an accusatory glare.

Tony merely smiles, propping his chin in his hand, elbows resting on the table, looking charming and handsome. "What, you didn’t like round one?"

Peter doesn't have an answer that does him any favours so he shoots Tony _A Look_ and pointedly turns to join in on Bucky and Steve's conversation.

Peter's ready when the waiter comes back after clearing round two. It comes round the circle again, this time Tony is first, to Peter's chagrin. "Chicken for me, and lamb okra for him," he orders casually.

"Mr S–"

"Just trust me. I know what you like."

"I know what I like too..." Peter mutters, but feels himself flush crimson regardless.

Next comes chicken palak, then onion rava, ghee roast, mattar paneer alu. Peter's not sure at which point he gives up trying. Somewhere between the chicken palak and Tony telling (not asking) Peter to let Tony take care of him. So Tony likes to run the show– it's not anything surprising or even new, and once Peter feels like he's made his point in shooting Tony appropriately annoyed looks (far past where his actual annoyance ran out– around lamb okra, turning him warm and jello inside, Tony's _I know what you like_ reverberating around inside his skull), he accepts it, stays quiet, eats his food.

It continues past ordering, though.

"No, not like that.”, “Dip it in the sauce. Slowly.”, “Try the crispy bits first.”, “Good boy."

"I know what I'm doing. May and I have Indian almost as often as Thai."

"Just because you know what you're doing, doesn't mean you know how to do it in the best way."

"That's exactly what that phrase means, sir."

"There's a difference between competence and finesse, sweetheart. I happen to have both."

Peter's brain is a little hung up on _good boy_ and _sweetheart_ , so he chooses to take the high road, rendering himself incapable of responding due to the amount of dosa in his mouth.

Peter chews slowly on his last one—chana palak—doing his very best to power through this last dosa, which is actually Tony's last dosa which he so generously ~~bestowed~~ dumped onto Peter's plate, making a comment about growing bodies or something equally borderline.

"So," comes Tony's voice, low, but not bothering to lean in to speak. "You gotta give me something here, kid. Was I good or was I good? Home run, right?"

Peter glances up, taking in the way Tony is lounging confidently against the back of the bench, arm stretched out behind Peter again, all cat that got the cream, the canary, _and_ the cheeseburger.

"You always told me there's a difference between showing and showing off."

Tony snorts. "Oh, I'm nothing if not a show-off."

"If you're nothing without showing off then maybe you shouldn't do it."

There's a vacuum following this, immediate silence across the whole table. Peter hadn't realised their little verbal badminton match had gained an audience. Without the private context, Peter realises how bold it sounds (hell, the private context makes it _more_ bold if anything, he thinks, _they have no idea_ ), impertinence on a level not expected by these people from sweet Peter Parker.

Tony, though, knows _exactly_ what to expect from _sweet Peter Parker_ and his eyes don't leave Peter's for a second to acknowledge the group, boring into his, all the lightness and banter of the last hour and a half gone in the blink of an eye. _If looks could kill_ , Peter muses, except he's not angry, it's more like, _if looks could immolate_ , because Peter still doesn't think there'd be anything left of him afterwards.

It's over in a matter of seconds. Peter watches closely as Tony tucks it away, smirking again and slouching further against the cushioned bench behind him. Diffusing, chuckling– "Hey, kid, do you want a ride home or not? Or _do you wanna walk?_ "

Apparently, two can play the game of digging through their history for cutting remarks.

Peter smiles syrupy sweet and venomous all at once. "Yes, sir, I'd like for you to give me a ride."

***

It's another two weeks before they're all piling into the jet once more. Peter ends up next to Happy who playfully bumps his arm against Peter, says, "This one's all for you, kid," but refuses to explain any further.

The meaning becomes clear, however, as they step inside a Southern-style seafood restaurant an hour later, decorated brightly in cheerful sunshine yellows and nautical blues. There was a friendly debate over the dinner table (becoming more and more a regular "family" dinner even at the compound) about a week prior regarding who had the most worldly palate (Tony and Happy refusing to accede the top spot to either and grudgingly calling it a tie). Peter ended up near the bottom of the list, but felt slightly mollified by Rhodey's assurances that a 19-year-old who had only left New York three times by the time he was seventeen didn't stand much of a chance against the rest of them, and not to worry, regardless of the diversity of food in the city. (Peter was also mollified for at least coming out on top of Steve and Bucky, both still trying to catch up to the vast modern-day influx of foreign and/or not-boiled-for-safety options).

Peter feels he's pretty adventurous with food, has tried a lot of what was available around them within their budget, and Queens is as diverse an area as there is. One thing that Aunt May just isn't keen on, though, is seafood. She might take Peter to sushi, but she herself would order tempura and teriyaki, wrinkling her nose when Peter offered up his sashimi or takoyaki, but Peter has never been to a seafood specialty restaurant. This information was met by extreme dissatisfaction by the rest of the group and pledges to rectify the situation as soon as possible.

Happy, at the head of the group again, is greeted with familiarity by the host and they are lead to a large farm-style table, white-washed and rough-hewn, hemmed on each side with a long matching bench. Peter fits himself between Thor and Sam, directly across from Tony who favours him with a pleased smile before craning around to talk to the waiter taking their starting drink orders as they settle in.

The head chef appears briefly as their drinks are delivered ‘round, crouching down next to Happy at the end of the table on Thor's other side. "We doing the full sample menu?"

"You're the boss, boss."

"I thought _I_ was the boss."

"Not here you ain't," Happy shoots back in mock-exasperation, rolling his eyes at Tony.

"Greatest hits it is," the chef chuckles and beats a quick retreat back to the kitchen.

The first round of sharing plates that come out are light, fresh. There is more ceviche and poké, which Peter jumps on immediately, as well as crudo of swordfish, salmon, and tuna. Each is tangy, bright, and refreshing. Peter especially likes the swordfish, his first time trying it. He draws out eating it, slicing it into tiny delicate slivers to make it last.

A foot bumps into his in the crowd beneath the table and he looks up, apology ready on the tip of his tongue, but finds Tony wordlessly sliding the last of the swordfish crudo across the table to him, corner of his mouth quirking as he nods his chin towards the plate, looking down at it and back up at Peter. Peter can't help the grin that stretches his lips over his teeth, mouths, _thanks_ , back at him and deposits the last two crudo onto his own plate.

Next come several large bowls of soups and salads accompanied by small bowls and ladles or tongs. Peter decides to try the soups, to embrace the theme– seafood gumbo (packed with shrimp, mussels, crab, and sausage), she-crab soup (Peter loves the crab, but hates the sherry-based broth, and lets Thor polish his bowl off), and smoked seafood chowder (easily his favourite: delicious smoked bacon that is dark and salty, thick broth, tender fish). The group, especially Happy, check in with Peter often: "How's the crab, you like crab, Pete?", "You ever tried crawfish before? Here, here–", "You gotta sop up it up with the bread, kid, like this."

The frequent group attention directed towards him covers the way Tony's gaze seems to linger on him, seems to—even if it leaves—stray back mid-conversation with others, but Peter doesn't miss it. He's still not entirely sure how to interpret it, though the word _avid_ comes to mind. Peter forces himself not to be self-conscious, not to worry about his manners, to just enjoy the feast.

"No, not like that– Tony, help him for chrissake, before he mangles the claw meat." Happy looks genuinely pained by the attempts Peter is making at accessing the meat with the lobster claw.

"Here, kid," Tony reaches across and pulls Peter's plate towards himself, takes the cracking utensil from Peter's hands and swings it around smoothly. "Like this."

He makes it look easy, clamping the utensil firmly around the claw and giving the shell a cracking squeeze, moves along and does it again several times. "See? Then you just peel the shell away and fork out the meat," he narrates. "You try." Tony pushes the plate and cracker back towards Peter.

He tries to follow suit on his own, though the shell cracker is awkward to handle, and eventually manages to pry a large enough section of shell off to get one of the skinny forks that accompanied the lobster inside.

"You can use your fingers, Peter."

Peter glances up from where he was bringing the fork to his mouth.

"The special fork is just for getting the meat out. Go ahead and get messy, kid," Tony explains, eyes on Peter's fingers as they pull the lobster meat off the slender tines. "That's it, that's how you do it."

Peter can feel himself going bright red, can feel the way his cheeks burn with it, the creep of it down his neck and collarbones. He keeps his eyes on his task, scooping out the remains of the claw onto his plate.

"Here," Tony's fork darts across the table, spears a chunk from the small pile Peter's extracted and he leans across his neighbour to dip it in the small bowl of clarified butter out of Peter's reach. "It's even better like this. You'll like it, I promise".

Tony cups his other hand underneath, catching the dripping butter as he extends the fork back across the table, offering it to Peter. Peter doesn't take the fork though, doesn't carefully extract the buttered lobster off the tines with his messy fingers like Tony intends. Tony's steady stream of commentary abruptly halts as Peter's lips close around his fork, smallest flash of tongue curling around the meat before sliding off.

There's a lengthy pause afterwards, noisy chatter all around them on either side, nobody paying them any mind. Tony's empty fork stays extended and their eyes locked for a long moment in which Peter refuses to back down, refuses to be the one to look away, to let Tony win again. Two can play this game, after all.

It's Tony who breaks the eye contact, though not before Peter, focused as he is on Tony's expression, notices the slight shift, a small curl to the corners of his lips. Tony sets the fork gently back on his plate with a delicate _clink_ and lets his eyes drop to Peter's plate, then back up at him.

"Good boy," he says, low, below the general din.

Peter's not sure if he's referring to the successfully dismantled claw on his plate, or... Well.

The plates keep coming, laden with all types of seafood Peter's never tried before. Halibut, mahi mahi, grouper, snapper, scallops, redfish, branzino. More swordfish, this time poached decadently in duck fat, comes and he thinks he might officially have a favourite, though the tender halibut with salsa verde is a close second. The perfectly seared scallop medallions—the house special, with a plate of three delivered to each guest—however, are on a whole other level. The conversational din suspends for a moment while unanimous compliments are expressed.

Peter doesn't think twice about the sound of satisfaction that bubbles up from his throat as he first tries the scallop, Thor making far louder sounds of appreciation beside him. His voice catches in his throat, though, when he notices Tony watching him from across the table, his own scallop poised halfway to his mouth but clearly forgotten. His eyes have gone dark, almost black despite the bright ambience, and Peter feels a familiar swoop low in his belly, despite the fact that Tony hasn't done more than tap his shoe and take a utensil from his hand the whole length of the dinner.

Peter wishes they were seated next to each other again, is sure Tony's fingers would be sliding along his back or leg, though he's not sure whether either of those would be any less easy to ignore than the way Tony's eyes feel like they're undressing him from across the table. Peter slowly chews his last scallop, boldly maintains the eye-contact until a server slides into the space between Peter and Wanda to refill his water glass. When he looks back to Tony after thanking the waiter, the man's eyes are down, focused on finishing his own plate.

The grand finale of the dinner is delivered in the form of two towering platters of shellfish– one with various types of crab, prawns and lobster, the other loaded with clams, mussels, and oysters. Between the soups and the lobster, Peter feels he's done his job on the crustacean-sampling, and reaches for a clam. He watches Happy showing Steve to spoon a dollop of garlic butter onto one, and follows suit, tips it into his mouth, chewing as the garlic and butter make way for the salty flush of the clam. The texture is... different, but it tastes amazing.

The mussel Happy passes him is more familiar, having previously tried Tony's _bouillabaisse_ at the French restaurant. It's cooked differently though, more tender, melts in his mouth with the spoon of white wine sauce Happy added before giving it to him.

"Good?" Happy checks in, handing a clam to Bucky.

Peter nods, mouth full, and glances at Tony who is watching him carefully, swallows and watches the way Tony's eyes track the movement.

"You ever try an oyster, kid?" Happy asks.

Peter shakes his head and Happy grins. "We got a first-timer on our hands, guys." He picks one out from the top tier and drizzles it with mignonette sparingly. "This one's got your name on it, buddy."

"Careful now, young Mr. Parker," Sam teases. "Those can be dangerous, you know."

" _Sam,_ " Steve says, a stern warning.

“Oh please. He’s a big boy now, grandad. He can handle it.”

“Handle what now?”

Tony’s eyes are still on him, watching.

Wanda rolls her eyes and smiles across the table at Peter, friendly, taking pity. “They’re considered an aphrodisiac.”

Peter accepts the oyster from Happy. “Really,” he says, eyeing it skeptically. It certainly doesn’t _seem_ particularly… sexy.

“Yup,” Sam replies, popping the ‘p’.

“Not that Peter would know anything about that–" Tony starts, smirking.

“You’re sure about that, huh?” Peter immediately shoots back, smiling pleasantly.

There’s a few chuckles, a few exaggerated *oohs*, but Tony narrows his eyes at Peter, challenging. "I'll believe it when I see it, kid."

Peter is saved from coming up with a response to that, tongue suddenly huge and uncoordinated in his mouth, by Steve, properly scandalised, hissing, “ _Tony!!_ ” but the comment sits inside Peter like a stone, sinking lower, glowing, and after ribbing Steve for being such a _Puritan_ , Tony’s gaze returns to Peters, clearly assessing.

“You know what to do with that?”

“Eat it, I was assuming?” Peter replies, the set of his mouth giving away the sarcasm.

“Not like the others, dear. You don’t chew it, just straight down the hatch.” Tony reaches for an oyster, murmuring “Like so,” as he tips his head back and lets it slide into his mouth. Peter can see his long throat work it down, Adam’s apple dipping with it. “Get it? Just swallow, kid.”

Peter cocks his head slightly. “Listen. Just because I've never had an oyster, doesn't mean I don't know how to swallow. Relax about it.”

That finally— _finally_ —stalls Tony. "Are you– what're you. Huh?” Interesting. Tony's not usually flustered like this.

"You heard me."

"Kid’s got teeth!" Happy crows, watching this verbal badminton match with glee.

“Kitty’s grown some claws, buddy– you better watch yourself!” Rhodey teases from Tony’s right, digging his elbow into Tony’s side.

"Oh, leave him alone, Tony. You were young and virginal, once."

Tony recovers quickly under the good-natured taunting. "Was I? Or did I spring, fully-formed, from my father's head?"

He directs his attention back to Peter, leans forward on his on his elbows, lacing his fingers together and resting his chin atop them. “Alright then, _kitten_ , we’re waiting.”

_Fuck._

Peter ignores their audience and downs it, expecting it to be cold, gross, slimy, but mostly it’s just salty, the bright tang of vinegar and shallot from the mignonette, and yeah, it’s slimy and cold, but it’s also delicious and decidedly not-gross. He swallows it down as instructed and places the empty shell in the provided dish.

“Ta-dah.”

There is mock-polite round of applause from the rest of the table to which Peter sketches a mock-flourishing bow, and their attention is quickly turned to Thor who launches into a description of the Asgardian equivalent of oysters, which sound decidedly more horrifying than Earth’s counterpart. Tony’s eyes remain on Peter, however, fingers now slightly steepled in front of his mouth, obscuring the shadow of a smile hidden there.

Peter holds his gaze, bold, and mouths, _believe me_? and Tony drops his fingers, a small huff of a laugh followed by the smile deepening the corners of his mouth. He flashes Peter a quick wink and reaches across Rhodey for a crab leg, sets to work on it while Peter turns his attention to Thor describing the lengthy and complicated process of disarming and _ugh gross_ , turning the oyster-equivalent inside-out before consumption.

It doesn’t take long for them to work through the rest of the platters, though Thor has to be stopped from finishing his story lest they lose what appetite they have left. He seems happy enough to dig into the last of the lobster remaining on the crustacean platter instead, and Wanda and Bucky finish the shrimp and crab, while Steve, Rhodey and Happy polish off the last of the mussels and clams.

Eventually they're down to the last morsels, two oysters, and Tony takes one for himself, pushes the tiered platter towards Peter.

"All yours, honey."

Peter’s done with guessing. Yeah, Tony’s an indiscriminate flirt. But as Tony raises his eyebrow and slides his ankle alongside Peter's under cover of the table, Peter is like, 99% fucking sure at this point it's an invitation. So he toes off his shoe and carefully slides his foot along the back of Tony's calf, just so, deliberately and slowly, maintains eye contact the whole time.

He thinks maybe fellating the oyster might be a little overt considering their surroundings, but he keeps his eyes on Tony as he reaches over the table, tapping his oyster shell against Tony’s.

“Cheers,” Peter quips.

“Bottoms up,” Tony smirks.

The groundwork is already there, foundation set, and Peter's free to make a bit of a show of it this time, keeps his eyes glued to Tony’s as the older man mirrors him, bringing it to his mouth, tipping his head back further than necessary, swallowing. The group laughs it off as they're supposed to, a couple wolf whistles and comments, "methinks the kid might no longer be a kid," and Tony, well, Peter knows Tony's thinking the exact same thing by the way there's a little too much teeth, a little sharpness in the grin he gives.

Tony’s eyes are always dark, but now there's almost no iris left. He looks hollowed out. There’s something terribly hungry there, despite the feast they've filled themselves on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " _Allasca, guagliò._ " = "Relax, kid."
> 
> Ibby: You can find me at [ibby-writes](https://ibby-writes.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.
> 
> Fey: And me on [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/feyrelay)!
> 
> Comments and kudos are very very very appreciated <3


	2. Chapter 2

The sun is setting as they finally make their way out of the restaurant to the farewells of the grateful staff, pockets lined generously with handsome tips. Happy’s had a couple drinks, so they’re down one car, packed a little closer than the trip there. Peter tries to stick close to Tony, wants an excuse to be pressed up against the man, shoulder to ankle, but Peter’s ushered into the nearest car, which fills up before Tony can squeeze in.

Peter, pressed up against the window, watches as the city passes by, conversation a pleasant buzz around him, the rest of the car’s occupants allowing him to drift. Which is a good thing- his mind is spinning off into a million directions at once, going everywhere and nowhere at once. The nose of the car Tony’s in drifts alongside his own, lags back, catches up. They come to a stop light and the other car pulls parallel, and Peter starts slightly; Tony is mirrored across from him sitting at the window of the other car, watching him in turn. He immediately feels guilty, caught watching, _voyeur_ , but he reasons with himself: Tony’s watching too. Peter watches as Thor leans around Tony, peering in confusion at what he’s distracted by, catches sight of Peter as the light turns green and pulls a stupid face as they peel away slightly ahead of Peter’s car.

He stares ahead at Tony’s profile, mostly just strong jaw, ear, nape of neck, curve of shoulder from this angle, until Tony turns, chin tucking over his shoulder, glancing back at Peter. Peter gives a very small smile, encouraging. _This is ok, right?_ Tony returns it, turns away again to say something to the rest of the car as Peter’s car levels out again with his. Peter sees Tony turning back, faces forward, pressing his lips together to force himself not to smile. What is it they call this? Oh yeah, cat-and-mouse. His eyes still slide to Tony’s across the distance, though, out of the corner of his eye, away again, and back. He catches Tony crack a grin helplessly, _you win_ , head dropping chin to chest before he turns back to Peter, visibly takes a deep breath, shakes his head just barely.

It’s not a ‘no’, not a denial. The look in his eyes is something closer to disbelief, something bordering on _awe,_ Peter thinks, the idea of it knocking the air out of his own lungs, ridiculous. _Don’t you know it’s the other way around?_

Peter’s car catches the next light and loses Tony’s behind for a long while, before—out of the corner of his eye—he catches him again and tries not to crane his neck, tries not to be too obvious. Peter tips his head back against the headrest instead, lengthening and exposing the line of his neck, stares across at Tony through his eyelashes, and that smirk disappears. It’s purposefully coy, intentionally blatant, and Peter feels powerful. Potent. There’s a flash of tongue sweeping across lips instead, Tony’s eyes bottomless and black in the fading daylight, sodium light from the streetlights casting endlessly-shifting shadows across his face.

He slips out of sight, ahead for a time, until they hit another light alongside each other with Peter holding his gaze, Tony having clearly abandoned whatever conversation he’d been attempting to be part of earlier. It should be uncomfortable, Peter thinks, basically just staring at another person like this, but he can’t look away, can’t break the spell. He feels breathless when they’re forced apart, Peter’s car slowing to allow Tony’s to merge ahead as they enter the traffic flow into the airport. This whole night feels surreal, has a shimmering, murky sheen to it; dreamlike. Peter feels drunk– two glasses deep at least.

Perks of Avenger-dom, they bypass the main body of La Guardia, around the bulk of the terminal to Stark Industries’ private hangar where the jet is waiting, fuelled and ready to go. Tony is already waiting by the stairs, chatting to the pilot, ushering the group up the steps and on board. He doesn’t make eye contact with Peter as he passes him, but Peter feels the hand pressed against the small of his back, familiar and thrilling all at once, all the way up the stairs. Tony follows closely behind.

The front of the plane is dimmed, similar to a public bus, Peter notes as they enter the cabin. Tony’s hand on his back, just above the swell of his ass, is distracting and Peter doesn’t think much about it before filing into the second row of seats, taking the window seat, all but collapsing into the buttery leather cushioning. He feels loose; pliable. Tony follows again, sliding in beside Peter and settling into the aisle seat, their chairs facing a pair of empty seats in front of him that create a four-group. The others are still filing in along the aisle beside them, loud and cheerful.

Peter leans back into the seat, lets his head rest in the curved, ergonomic cushion. He can feel the current of tension running between himself and the body next to him. He can smell the woody scent of Tony’s cologne– cedar, amber and vetiver. Peter wants to burrow into it, into him, so he never smells anything else. He breathes deeply, luxuriating in the simple act of doing it, unafraid of being caught out for once. Feels it coat his mouth, his throat, his lungs, closes his eyes and thinks, _oysters ain’t got nothing on this_.

Tony glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “Tired?”

Peter tilts his head just slightly towards Tony, enough to meet his eyes, take in the way Tony’s gaze seems to helplessly fall to Peter’s mouth when his lips part, dragging back up to his eyes. Peter swallows and turns his head forward. 

“No.”

“Good.”

Peter’s guts squirm, heat blooming from the inside, out.

Happy finally climbs aboard, shuts the cabin door, and seals it behind him, passes the two of them with little more than a cursory glance and heads towards the back of the plane where most of the others are congregated. The pilot closes the door to the cockpit and the engines start up, revving in a way that Peter feels is apt, that he identifies with as he swallows around the thrum rising around them and as Tony shifts next to him. He glances behind them down the aisle, checking. 

The plane backs up, turning and repositioning, then makes its way towards the small private runway that belongs to Tony. Within a couple minutes they are waiting at the end, letting the engines come up to speed. The noise drowns out most of the sound of the others’ boisterous voices behind them and Peter glances out into the night, last rays of sunset disappearing in the west, the sky above a deep and starless, velvety blue.

Tony leans in—needlessly, as the engines easily drown out his low murmur to anyone but Peter—breath puffing warmly against Peter’s neck. “Can you be good for me?”

Peter can’t help the way his breath stutters in, staccato, or the way he shifts his hips in his seat, helpless.

Tony doesn’t bother waiting for more of an answer as the plane lurches into motion, ignoring the inertia pressing them back against their seats and pulls up the arm rest between them, exposing where Peter’s hand is resting on the seam of the seats beneath. Peter goes to move it and Tony presses his own fingers down on the top of Peter’s hand, staying him. He casually brings his right leg up, crossing his ankle over his knee, obscuring where their hands rest together between them.

Peter waits, patient, _good_ , as they take off and start their ascent, engines roaring in his ears, senses dialled up fully. The fingers resting lightly over his don’t move for a long while. Peter, still a new flier, usually likes to watch out the window, especially on cloudless nights like this, the city sprawling in a twinkling blanket below them. Tonight, he stares ahead, breathes. He wants to be good. 

They level out– it's a short flight; they don't need to get that high. Peter waits and stretches his fingers gently under Tony’s, which immediately press down and then move off entirely. Peter can’t help the small sound that escapes his throat, which gets caught half-way as the tips of Tony’s fingers gently brush his wrist, slide down the top of his hand and press gently between Peter’s fingers, the heat of Tony’s palm pressing warmly to the top of Peter’s hand.

He leaves it there for another long while. Peter can’t help but wonder, briefly, _is that it?_

He shifts his fingers again, just lightly flexes them under and between Tony’s. Again, Tony responds, as if he were waiting for it, slides his fingers around the edge of Peter’s hand. He curls them under and brushes them along Peter’s line of heart, tracing it methodically back and forth, and Peter takes it back, this is _enough_ , feels that warm coal settle back in the pit of him, deep and primal. His whole hand is tingling, up his arm, sparking and leaving his skin goosebumped, hair standing on end, spidey-senses working overtime with the stimulation.

Peter flips his hand over, palm up, and lets Tony trace careful lines over his palm and fingers, soft and almost tickling, then pressing, sliding firmly. Peter gasps as Tony presses his thumb into the meat of Peter’s palm, feels like there’s a direct current from his palm to his dick, presses his thighs together. 

Tony’s fingers wrap around his knuckles and the man _squeezes_ , exhales slowly, loud, gusting to Peter’s sensitive hearing. It’s an admission, and Peter has to squeeze his empty hand around the armrest on his other side, draws a breath in through his nose. It’s… the idea of it is hard to look at—that _Tony Stark_ is getting off on this, on _him—_ like looking directly into the sun. Easier to glance at it out of the corner of your eye, around it, but not _at_ it. 

Tony’s chin dips with another exhale, head just barely turns towards Peter, “You have no idea what I’m–”

Happy abruptly passes them, up past the next row into the little alcove housing dishes, glasses, cutlery. Peter thinks he may be in danger of evaporating on the spot, forces his breath slowly out through his nose. Oblivious, Happy pulls out the additional highball glasses that don’t fit in the jet’s bar which is towards the back ahead of the bathroom and double sleeper cabins. He heads back, gestures to his handful of glasses as he draws level with them, slowing only slightly.

“Mezcal?”

“Yeah. Sure. Sounds great.” Tony smiles up at him, squeezing Peter’s hand again.

“You got it.” Happy passes out of sight.

Tony waits another long moment, motionlessly holding Peter’s hand, larger fingers caging Peter’s, then unthreads their fingers again, returns to stroking his fingers along Peter’s gently, learning each crease, the shape of the bones underneath. It’s equal parts teasing and horribly tender, and Peter suddenly needs to know— 

"Will you—I mean, is this—" Peter can feel Tony’s eyes on him, but he keeps his eyes fixed forward, focuses on keeping his breathing even, try again.

“Will I what?” Peter doesn’t think he’s ever heard Tony’s voice sound quite like this; honeyed but dangerous underneath. Venus flytrap. 

“You know,” Peter says, halfways between helpless and accusatory. _You know what you’re doing. You know what I’m asking. You know what I want._

“I don’t know.”

“You do.” 

Peter can feel Tony’s laugh more than hear it, can tell his teeth are bared without looking. "Okay, maybe I know a little, but that doesn't mean I don't want to hear you ask." His fingers are toying with Peter’s middle finger purposefully.

There’s a burst of noise, a reminder, from behind them and Peter does look this time, catches Tony’s mouth quirk out of the corner of his eye. He settles back against his seat, trying to get his thoughts under control, get them into order, make _sense_ of things.

“Maybe just because I want it, doesn't mean I know how to ask, ever think of that?" It comes out clearer, stronger than he expected. He’s impressed with himself.

"I _did_ think of that, actually. A lot." And just like that his thoughts scatter again, like cockroaches fleeing the sudden light, breaking for dark corners and crevices. Before he can respond, Tony continues. "It was just one little question, Peter. Or did you want me to make it a yes or no? Make it easier for you?"

Peter shakes his head minutely. "No, I can, I’m good– I'm, you know, just give me a second." 

Peter is aware Tony’s teasing him; he’s being toyed with, the way cats like to play with their prey, and Peter has the thought that tonight’s dinner didn’t end when they left the restaurant. 

It’s a game, and he wants to play. He wants to be good.

"Will you– is it your plan to fuck me tonight?" 

He’s fully hard, thighs squeezing inwards, willing it down, or at least under control. Tony notices again, this time tracks the flexing of Peter’s thighs and his eyes feel like a touch, like a broad palm stretching across his thighs, hips, pressing against his cock. Tony looks up at Peter, and Peter’s not sure how Tony’s eyes can be both dark voids, black and huge in the dim light, yet also fiery, heated. He wonders what his own eyes look like, how blown his pupils are.

Tony finally, _finally_ detaches their hands, but only to turn more fully towards him, shoulders angled inward, creating a more intimate alcove between himself and the wall. He looks at Peter for a long moment, considering. "Jesus Christ, kid, you think someone could have a _plan_ in the face of..." he trails off, eyeing Peter up and down, "... all this?"

Peter has no idea what he’s talking about. Doesn’t know what _‘all this’_ is supposed to refer to.

"What does _that_ mean, Mr. Stark?"

Tony huffs. "It means, I have a reason for my sly attempts to overwhelm your senses and that reason is: Misery Loves Company."

"Are you saying _you_ are overwhelmed? By me?" It’s not on purpose; it’s not meant to be coy or flirtatious. Tony’s trying to make him look at the sun, and Peter just—he just— 

"Savagely."

He’s is so hard in his pants, sticky with pre-come already, and Peter thinks he might just come untouched like some sort of virginal pubescent kid if this continues.

“Please just–”

“Please, what? Tell me,” Tony instructs.

“Salud, _pendejos_.” Happy slides into the aisle seat opposite Tony, balancing three glasses between his two hands, hands one to Tony, and one to Peter, much to Peter’s surprise.

His mind is still wrapped around the cut-off question, unasked and answerless as he wraps his shaky fingers around the sweating glass, fancy ball of perfectly clear ice tinkling against the crystal musically. 

“You’re such a _good_ kid, Peter, I think you could use some bad influences. So there you go.”

He’s not even sure what he was about to ask. Please just what? Touch me? Kiss me? 

_Please just keep talking, Mr Stark_?

 _Please just fuck me, Mr Stark_?

Tony’s legs spread slightly wider and his free hand slides back onto Peter’s and presses, palm-to-palm. _Stay_.

“He _is_ good, isn’t he?” Tony says, the words redundant when his hand is already on Peter.

His hand presses harder. Peter wants to punch him.

“Yeah, like, _too_ good, y’know? You ever break a law in your life, kid?” Happy asks amiably.

Peter raises his glass, untouched yet, but the point remains, “Pretty sure this breaks one or two.”

Happy scoffs at him. “This is what college is supposed to be for, kid. You’re gonna wanna be bad at some point and you’ve got nowhere to get that out.” Peter realises Happy’s drunk. Like… pretty drunk. Tony’s covering his choked laugh with an unsubtle cough. His thumb and pointer finger circle Peter’s wrist gently. “You should be at a frat party with a bunch of fellow dumbass college kids.”

Peter can’t help but laugh, glancing at Tony, whose eyes are crinkling pleasingly, handsome. “Gee, thanks, Haps.”

“This one though,” Happy gestures to Tony with his thumb, dismissive. “You watch out for this one. He’s enough bad influence for an entire frathouse of dumbass college kids. Two.”

Tony gasps, scandalised, presses his soda & mezcal to his chest in mock betrayal. “ _Judas_ ,” he breathes.

“Yeah, yeah,” Happy flaps his hand at Tony’s theatrics, heaving his alcohol-loose body out of the chair, steadying himself on the headrest. “You two be good, now.”

“We’ll be good, buddy.”

There’s a moment of silence as Happy trundles off again, broken by Peter’s snort of laughter. Tony’s fingers tighten around his wrist and he turns to back to their previous position, breadth of his shoulders blocking Peter off from the rest of the plane. 

“To being good, darling. _L’chaim_.”

He clinks his glass against Peter’s and drinks, watching him over the rim of the glass. Peter’s brain isn’t functioning well already; the alcohol is not a good idea, he thinks. He can feel the plane starting its descent towards the compound, knows the flight will be over soon and Peter wants to be… present for this. He should offer it to Tony, put it on the little table jutting out from the wall between their seats and the two mirrored opposite.

He drinks anyways.

The mezcal burns Peter’s throat on the way down, makes him gasp slightly in its wake. He coughs slightly and Tony’s expression darkens, sipping again from his glass. “You were saying?” 

Peter coughs again, unsure if it’s from the alcohol or the question. “What?”

“Please just what, Peter?” A gentle reminder, steel wrapped in silk.

What comes out instead of all the options that ran through his head while he sat, unable to voice any of them, is, "Please, just don't... change your mind."

Peter can see the way Tony’s face blanches slightly, and he’s ready to reel the comment back in, add on, fix it, _something_ , can’t just leave it hanging there like that, all earnest and transparent. But Tony’s breath comes out in a gust, wry amusement, and he looks down at where is hand is splayed over Peter’s—proprietary—and glances up to the ceiling where the seatbelt sign dings, arbitrarily signalling their descent.

He looks at Peter squarely, expression fierce, insistent. “You really don’t get it, do you, kid?”

He gives Peter a searching look, faces as close as can be easily explained in a public setting, eyes flicking back and forth between Peter’s. His features are shadowed but Peter doesn’t miss the way Tony’s eyes don’t flick down to his mouth when Peter wets his lips shyly, hold his eyes until he seems to come to some conclusion. Tony settles back into his seat with a huff of breath, fingers sliding back between Peter’s without curling under, holding. 

“I’ll show you.”

They’re about to land, and Peter’s so worked up, on edge, that he can feel the mechanisms in the plane’s wings, the hum of the wheels descending. He downs half his highball in one mouthful, swallows it without coughing. Tony’s fingers peel Peter’s palm from the leather, flipping his hand over as he curls his fingers, runs his fingernails across Peter’s palm lightly.

“There you go, honey.” His voice is soft enough that Peter only just barely hears it through the scream of the engines.

The plane touches down, smooth, and comes to a stop inside the hangar. Tony slides his fingers from between Peter’s, lets them slide up his hand lazily, brushing the wrist before he removes them entirely.

“I’ll see you inside,” Tony says, faux-casual, adjusting his cuffs and placing his empty glass on the aisle armrest. Peter watches as he gets up, unfolding his limbs, and lets his eyes slide briefly to Peter’s before landing on the half-full glass clutched in his right hand, nods at it. “You finish that. Then come find me.”

***

Peter gets swept up by the raucous group as he exits the plane a few minutes later, having taken time to get himself… under control. He finishes his drink. Thinks of frozen waters. The Queen. The smell of Clint’s gym shoes. He’s heading down the ramp when a heavy arm is thrown over his shoulders, and he staggers under the weight of it as Thor leans into him.

“Parker! Where have you been!?”

An answer is clearly not expected as Thor immediately carries on with the conversation he’d been having with Rhodey and Bucky, fairly dragging Peter along with him as they make their way through the hangar and enter the compound. They’re all clearly varying shades of drunk at this point, and Peter wants to be annoyed at the distraction but finds himself grudgingly charmed by the boisterous atmosphere. It’s not often they have the chance to let off steam like this.

The residential quarters are proximal to the hanger, designed that way to premeditate emergencies. They’re crowding into the atrium in less than two minutes, and there’s a momentary hesitation, a, _now what?_ before someone (Sam) shouts, “shots!” and the mass of bodies carries Peter through the main corridor and into the open space housing the kitchen, dining area, and living area. Bodies flop loosely onto the generous arrangement of sofas and chairs as Happy offers to continue playing bartender.

Peter stops in the doorway, hesitating; Tony is leaning with his back against the marble countertop of the island, legs casually crossed at the ankle, nursing a new glass of amber liquor. He looks up, meeting Peter’s eyes, and gives a small, private smile as he shifts to face him, hip cocked as he rests his elbow onto the counter, glass hanging loosely from his hand. Peter’s mouth dries, he feels that just-contained heat in his belly flare again. Tony sips from his glass, louche and careless.

“I–...” Peter clears his throat, tries again, pitching his voice a little louder. “I think I’m gonna head to bed, guys.” Stops himself from faking a yawn.

“Like hell you are, kid!” Clint fixes him with a look, waving him over aggressively. “What kind of almost-20-year-old turns down a chance to get wasted with his idols.”

“Giving yourself a lot of credit there, buddy,” Rhodey says as he playfully pushes Clint’s head forward with a hand on the back of his stupid haircut.

“Come on, Petey, this is part of the team building exercise. Right, Happy?” Sam wheedles, looking upside-down over his shoulder to where Happy is pouring drinks at the bar behind them. 

Happy nods sagely. “Absolutely. Pick your poison, kid.”

Peter starts as a warm weight comes to rest in the small of his back again, guiding. “You’ll like this.” Tony presses a drink into Peter’s hands, and then the hand is gone and Tony slides past him and makes a show of collapsing into the last empty space on the couch, hemmed in by Bruce on one side and the small end table on the other.

He’s left Peter one of the handsome wingbacks directly across the space from him, and Peter folds himself into it, careful of the drink balanced in his hand. He tries it. It’s bright, tart bordering on sour, but the alcohol blooms warmth in its wake, balancing. Tony’s watching him from across the room as Peter looks up from trying it, raises one dark brow in question. Peter nods, and Tony winks before slinging an arm across the back of the couch behind Bruce and leans in to join the conversation happening between him, Wanda and Vision.

Peter tries his best to settle in. Tries to follow one of the conversations swirling around him. It’s hard for him sometimes, in crowds, to focus on just one thing. The gentle haze of alcohol and arousal doesn’t help, but it does help him settle, to not feel anxious in following along. He waits, sipping at his drink. Eventually everyone will go to bed, right? It’s edging past eleven now and Peter thinks he remembers something about a group of them having to head out tomorrow for a short visit to Washington. 

As if summoned, Steve extricates himself from the couch, stretching, says something about needing the bathroom. He pauses beside Peter’s chair on his way, crouching down, and Peter’s expecting some sort of avuncular admonishment or cautioning regarding his age and the drink in his hand, but Steve just smiles at him, friendly, easier than he usually is and says, “This all ok, Pete?”

“Yeah! Yeah it’s– this is nice, Captain Rogers. I’m good.” 

Steve laughs, pats Peter’s thigh with a large hand, and Peter can’t help but make the comparison, how diametrically opposite it is from–

“You know you can call me Steve, right?”

“Yeah, I know,” Peter says quickly. “It’s just–... habit.”

Another pat on his knee this time, friendly, and the hand stays there as Steve levers himself back to his feet. “Alright. Just checkin’ in.”

Peter nods. He can see Tony’s face turned towards them in his periphery.

“Don’t let them bully you into anything, right?”

“Right,” Peter echoes.

Steve’s hand claps his shoulder once, twice, and he continues past Peter.

When Peter glances over at Tony he’s back absorbed in conversation with the rest of the couch, speaking animatedly, hands gesturing. Peter takes advantage of the opportunity to be the watcher this time, notes the way Tony’s eyes keep sliding over to his despite his engagement, clearly telling a story. Sipping at his drink, watching, Peter lets his mind wander. Considers the way Tony keeps glancing at him and the things Peter might do that would keep those eyes straying back to his, keep them for his own. Peter’s a polite guy; he’s good at sharing. But he doesn’t want to share Tony. He wants him all to himself, _now._

Peter imagines himself sliding down in his chair, hips forward, on offer. Imagines looking up at Tony from under his lashes, blinking slowly. If there were a straw in his drink he might curl his tongue around it, just a flash of pink, enough to catch the man’s eyes and keep them there, on his mouth. 

Or maybe he would feign being a little drunker than he is, let his eyes drift shut as he mentally picked through the blur of voices, finding Tony’s and focusing on it. Peter imagines Tony talking low, under the others so only Peter can hear, telling him how good he looks, what a good boy he is. How much he wants him, how he’s thinking about coming over there and taking him right there, right now, with everyone watching.

Peter’s not doing any of these things, but the flash of Tony’s dark eyes seems to be flicking his way at an increasing rate. He lets his eyes wander, hides behind the rim of his glass as his eyes slide along the span of Tony’s strong shoulders, muscles obvious through the t-shirt he’s wearing now that the jacket from dinner is gone. His arms are built, powerful, corded muscle and tendons flexing from bicep to forearm as Tony mimes throwing something across the room. Peter’s gaze is drawn inevitably to Tony’s hands, watches them waving around, articulate and passionate. Those hands have featured in Peter’s fantasies since his childhood. Strong, capable, clever fingers and calloused palms. Maker’s hands. 

They come to rest in Tony’s lap as Bruce takes over the story. Peter watches his left hand reach out and wrap back around his glass, focused to the point of preoccupation, completely unaware of what else is going on in the room. He’s distracted enough that the buzz of his phone in the pocket of his jeans startles him and his drink slops over the rim, wetting the leg of his jeans, turning the faded black the colour of pitch. He fishes his Starkphone out his pocket, thumbing it open on the new text message.

[Image description: Tony's message says 'you know, doe eyes aren't the best strategy in the face of a huntsman']

Peter can feel himself go scarlet, can’t help the way he has to catch his drink from wobbling precariously again, the way his eyes instantly snap to Tony’s. Tony is toying with his own phone, flipping it end-over-end between thumb and forefinger smoothly. He sips from his drink again, watching Peter as he swallows. His eyes don’t leave Peter’s as Peter’s phone buzzes again in his hand. He’s still watching as Peter breaks his gaze to look down.

[Image description: It says 'you were staring']

The dot-dot-dot of typing appears below this, and Peter looks up, but Tony’s eyes are still on his face. His left hand is still cradling his drink, but his right hand is wrapped around his phone now, thumb subtly sliding across the surface in a way that looks idle to anyone watching, thoughtless. _Clever_. Another buzz.

[Image description: 'not the first time I've caught you staring at my hands, kid']

Peter only has time to glance up this time before the phone buzzes again; Tony clearly doesn’t require a written response.

[Image description: 'and I always wonder what it is you're thinking about']

He can’t help the whine works its way from his throat, but he’s confident nobody hears it. He needs to… Peter glances around himself, checks in on the rest of the group, making sure. They’re all carrying on obliviously, though, absorbed in their drunken antics and conversations. Peter’s pretty sure there’s a drinking game happening on the other couch. Confident he can get by on the excuse of being a typical phone-obsessed teenager, Peter meets Tony’s eyes just as his phone buzzes yet again.

[Image description: 'are you thinking about my hands on you?']

The burn of the drink Tony made him pales in comparison to the heat flushing through Peter’s entire body. How many fucking times has Peter, age 13, 15, 17, last month, last week, last night, fantasised about _sexting Tony Stark?_

[Image description: 'yes or no, sweetheart. nod your head.']

Peter looks up and nods, his breath coming quicker.

[Image description: Two messages. The first: 'I can tell.' Then: 'I can tell because you're shifting in your seat.']

Peter catches himself doing it, the way his hips are moving, tailbone curling under and then out.

[Image description: Another message. 'Are you thinking about my hand under your jacket at Masa?']

It’s… on the list. Sure, he is. Hasn’t stopped since it first slipped under there. Peter nods.

[Image description: Two more texts. 'I wanted to slide it under your shirt, touch your skin' says the first one. 'Would you have let me?' asks the next.]

Peter swallows around the hysterical laughter that wants to bubble up from his throat. It’s kind of pathetic, how anemic his own fantasies have been in the face of the reality of being seduced by this man. Peter looks up to the ceiling, looks back at Tony and nods helplessly.

_Please._

Tony only smirks.

[Image description: Another text. 'What about my hand on your thigh? I thought about it, you know. Jerking you off under the table in front of everyone. Would you have liked that, Peter? Would you have been quiet for me?']

 _Yes. Yes, God._ Peter nods, nods some more.

[Image description: 'Or maybe you're thinking about my hands in your hair?']

And— _fuck_ —this isn’t fair, Peter pinned under his gaze, helpless. Tony’s looking at him like he’s the final course for tonight; that hunger is back, fathomless and lurid.

[Image description: 'You didn't think I hadn't noticed, had you? The way you melt when I touch it?']

Peter feels volcanic. Like he should be breathing fire. Doesn’t know whether he’s nodding yes or no, just _more._

[Image description: 'Stop licking your lips, Peter.']

Peter’s about to plead for mercy, can’t handle anymore of this without severely embarrassing himself in front of his teammates and heroes. He’s already had to cross his legs to hide how hard he is, jeans not hiding anything, dick pressing almost painfully into the heavy seam along the fly. He’s saved (or not) by Rhodey crouching down beside Tony at the end of the couch, showing him something on his own phone, Tony casually sliding his back into his pocket.

Peter takes advantage of the distraction, slips out of his seat which is thankfully closest to the dining area and forces himself to not run for the bathroom. _Be cool. Be cool, Peter._

  
He’s barely got his jeans unbuttoned before his hand is shoved down, under his briefs, back against the locked door when his phone buzzes again, and Peter groans as he pulls it from his pocket, almost afraid to look at it.

[Image description: Two messages. 'Sorry, kid. Didn't think you'd need privacy so soon-' and 'Must've overwhelmed those senses.']

Peter wraps his fingers around his dick, doesn’t have the wherewithal to pull it out, just squeezes and jerks his fist in tight, short movements within the confines of his underwear, already on the edge.

[Image description: 'You'll be fine, though. I know you're taking care of it.']

Peter thinks about Tony, back out there on the couch casually chatting with his best friend, knowing Peter’s in here jerking off, because of him. _For him_.

[Image description: 'almost done?']

He is, he’s so fucking close, tips his head back against the door with a _thump_ , panting hotly, fist working hard and fast in his underwear.

[Image description: 'you could ask me, you know']

Peter slides the phone onto the vanity counter and grips the edge of quartz, trying to stay in control and not crack it. He’s just needs– The phone buzzes loudly on the cool countertop.

[Image description: Two texts. 'You're missing Thor's impression of Loki turning into a horse' followed by another. 'Better be quick about it.']

It’s stupid that that’s what does it. A command wrapped up in a stupid joke. But it does, and Peter’s coming into his underwear like he’s thirteen all over again, teeth set against his own forearm to have something to do with his mouth other than sob with the force of his orgasm. He has to steady himself on the counter with his clean hand, knees jellied in the wake of it. Peter winces as he finally pulls his hand from his pants, holds it under the running tap before reaching for the box of tissues beside the sink and wadding up a handful and doing what he can to clean up the mess inside his underwear before it soaks through the front of his jeans. He’s still tacky, briefs still moist as he zips himself back up, but it’ll have to do for now.

Peter takes another minute or two to catch his breath, stares at himself in the mirror and waits for the colour in his cheeks to come down to a level that doesn’t make it glaringly obvious what he was doing in here. His phone lies silent where he left it, and he pockets it, squaring himself and unlocking the door.

He saunters out and straight into Tony coming around the corner from the kitchen corridor. Doesn’t have the brain function or reflexes post-orgasm to process what’s happening before he’s shoved backwards, Tony’s hands at his hips, pressing them hard into the wall behind him. Peter doesn’t recognise the sound that comes out of his mouth as Tony crowds him, presses his forehead against Peter’s, thumbs pressing into his pelvis, no doubt making two dark prints dampen through his jeans. Tony breathes him in, like he wants to smell it on him.

As fast as it happened, it’s over, and Tony is off, away, closing the bathroom door behind himself and Peter gets it– this isn’t over. That wasn’t dessert, it was round one; an _amuse bouche._

It takes all his enhanced physical ability to carry himself back to the group. His wingback chair has been commandeered by Thor in his absence and Peter drops heavily onto the couch next to it where Thor had been previously. 

“You doin’ alright there, Parker?” Happy says from further along the couch. 

There’s nothing he can do about the blush staining his face despite his efforts before leaving the bathroom. He plays it off, though, runs a hand through his hair, the picture of light embarrassment as he laughs, “Yeah, just– guess I’m a lightweight.”

“It takes practice, kid, don’t worry about it,” Rhodey says sincerely, skin only just slightly flushed despite the number of glasses that now populate the coffee table centered between the couches and chairs.

It says something (or a lot of somethings) that Peter only picks up on Tony’s footsteps approaching from behind the couch moments before his fingers drag across his shoulders, arm-to-arm, skimming the nape of his neck, a little too firm to be as casual as he’s trying to play it. He comes round the side, between Thor’s chair and the couch, and drops himself beside Peter. His arms stay propped up on the back of the couch, not touching Peter at all, and Peter knows that he’s meant to notice that, to be thinking about it. They don’t look at each other. Happy offers Tony another drink, which he declines, and then Peter, who follows suit.

Peter’s not sure how long they sit there, not looking, not talking. At one point Steve passes around his own Starkphone, showing everyone the video from the primary school Avengers play that’s been going viral. Peter’s seen it, makes to pass the phone along to Tony, but he doesn’t take the phone from Peter, cups his fingers around Peter’s instead, thumb stroking the inside of Peter’s wrist where no one can see while he watches. He laughs at the appropriate spots, seems genuinely engaged despite the pointed caress. He passes it along after a minute or two to Thor, returns his arms to the back of the couch wordlessly.

  
Peter can see the way Wanda’s eyes have gone comically droopy at this point, takes note of the yawn Bucky tries to hide not long after. He heaves himself up off the couch, away from the circle of Tony’s arm and exaggerates a little stumble in his step. He collects as many cups from the coffee table as he can carry and pads into the kitchen, deposits them in the sink. He hopes the message is clear: _time to call it a night._ He busies himself rinsing the glasses, careful of the expensive glassware.

Tony waits a beat and also stands, also collects a few cups and brings them to the kitchen as well, sidles up to Peter at the sink and crowds around him to deposit his glasses in the basin too. They’re facing the group, backs to the empty kitchen, and Peter only has to wait a moment before he feels Tony’s hand settle between his scapulae, fingers briefly brushing across the bare skin above the collar of his henley. He slowly lets his hand slide down Peter’s back, fingers gently following the curve of his spine, all the way down until it rests on the swell above his ass, waiting for permission. Peter glances at the group momentarily but no one is paying them any attention. He arches his back, just a little, and lowers his head, baring the nape of his neck; an invitation.

He can hear the rough exhale Tony gives at it, the pressure behind the hand pressing down and in, exaggerating the curve of his spine for a moment before sliding downwards over the curve of Peter’s ass. His hand comes to a stop over one of the jean pockets, fingers squeezing slightly. Peter breathes out through his nose. It’s the first time Tony has touched him in an overtly sexual way, completely undeniable, regardless of all the heated glances, the words, the texts. Peter braces the heels of his hands on the edge of the sink as Tony reaches around him again to turn off the tap, stepping in, pressing his front briefly along Peter’s back. His hips press against Peter’s ass, that hand shifting to curl around his hip, pulling him back against the man behind him for a moment before he’s released, Tony stepping away and snagging the hand towel from the door of the oven and tossing it to Peter, returning to the couch.

Peter can’t do this anymore. His underwear is still damp, sticky around his cock which is half-hard again, currently leaking pre-come into the mess already there. He discreetly adjusts himself and returns to the couch, settling on it only for a moment before lurching to his feet, sudden motion attracting the fuzzy attention of several of the group as he intended. They look up at him with concern.

“You ok, kid?” someone asks.

“I just– I just realised something. I–... I gotta go to the lab. See you guys!”

He hops over the back of the couch, over Tony’s outstretched arm and saunters over to the corridor that leads towards the lab. 

He hears Tony—“I should– someone should … make sure he doesn’t … blow anything up…”—before he’s out of range.

***

The lab is dark when he presses his palm the the security panel, slipping in as he’s granted access by FRIDAY’s cool voice, the only light coming from the soft LED glow of the active interfaces, and few displays. There’s one holo active on the far side of the room, scanning through lines of lines of code. Peter likes it, doesn’t call for the lights. He drifts further into the lab, suddenly unsure. Tony will be following behind him, any second now, and then they– then there’s nothing stopping them. He wants this, _wants_ it. And–... well it appears Tony does too, somehow. Peter still can’t quite believe it, despite everything. He thinks he could be bent naked over one of these worktops with Tony buried inside him and still not quite believe it. 

He doesn’t get to second-guess himself or psych himself out any longer, though, because there is a gentle hiss behind him and Tony steps carefully into the lab, doors sealing shut behind him with the same sound and he’s immediately striding towards Peter, but stops short a few feet away, abrupt. Peter can sense his uncertainty and his own instantly evaporates. He approaches slowly, and Tony makes a hollowed-out sort of sound when instead of stepping into Tony's space and reaching up, he sinks to his knees, slow as molasses.

Peter's hands are at Tony's belt, the words, "Wait, Peter, wait–" on Tony’s tongue, at direct odds with his fingers sliding into Peter's curls, tipping his head back, when the beep of the lab door unlocking sounds. 

Peter has only a moment to pull Tony’s belt back through the buckle and lurch backwards a foot or two before Bruce steps through the door.

“Hey, guys what’s– why’s it so dark in here?” And thank God for Happy and his endless supply of drinks because his tone is blessedly unsuspicious when he asks, “Why are you on the floor, Peter?”

“I… I dropped–...” Peter says.

“Pencil,” Tony supplies.

“Yeah. Yeah dropped my pencil.” Peter shuffles around on his hands and knees, squinting when Bruce calls the lights up.

“Lights might help, don’t you think?”

Peter laughs, trying to keep the nerves out of it. “Oh yeah! I guess… I guess I’m kinda drunk.” He’s not drunk. There’s no fucking pencils down here, the floor is fucking spotless as usual.

Bruce, apparently oblivious, comes over to them but gets distracted by the scrolling holo along the row of tables, gaze lingering on it just long enough for Tony to reach forward and grab the pencil resting on a pad of paper Peter had been sketching on that morning. He tosses it to Peter quickly without looking, Peter’s spidey reflexes snagging it before hits the ground. 

“Found it.”

Bruce isn’t even looking. Tilts his head at the code and asks Tony, “Does Ross know you’re modifying CIA code?”

Tony shrugs, but his eyes are on Peter still at his feet, and Peter can see now, in the light, the tense set of his jaw, the tendon in his neck jumping. “What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.”

Bruce hums in doubt, but leaves it, turning back towards them as Peter finally clamours to his feet. “So what are you working on? You said you had an idea or something?”

And of course Bruce, bless him, is the type of guy who is genuinely more interested in a lab breakthrough while three sheets to the wind than enjoying the company of his friends upstairs. Peter’s never been more frustrated in his entire life, but he can’t be mad at Bruce.

***

A quarter of an hour later he thinks he could get there, though, after purposefully producing some shitty pseudo-drunk flawed chemical equations that will solve a web-fluid problem he’s been working on, meaning to give it up and for Bruce to leave, or… or _something_ that isn’t Bruce earnestly saying, “No I think you might actually be onto something there, kid.”

And Peter’s just–... he’s done. He gives up. It isn’t meant to be. It should _not_ be this hard. This is the universe saying _not tonight, Parker_. Peter chucks his pencil down, heaving a frustrated sigh that he hopes can be written off as fatigue. 

“I’m out.” Tony’s gaze snaps up to his, Bruce’s much slower to follow. Peter tries to offer him a smile. “I’m totally wiped. I’m gonna head to bed, guys.”

Bruce nods blithely, “Yeah, sure Peter. No worries. Have a good sleep, we’ll see you tomorrow.”

Tony stays quiet, but Peter’s already heading for the door anyways. He pauses as it opens for him, looking back to find Tony watching him over Bruce’s rounded shoulders, already bent back over the equations. His eyes are still dark, still wanting. Peter offers him a smile and a wry shrug. _C’est la vie, right?_

He holds out a small hope that maybe everyone has cleared out upstairs, but he’s immediately disappointed when he hears Thor’s booming voice echo down the hallway. They shout drunkenly at him as he reappears, calling him back over to rejoin. He makes a show of yawning, stretching, checking his watch, groans, "Jesus Christ it’s almost 2 am– you guys planning on calling it a night any time soon?"

They’re clearly not. Peter bids them a firm goodnight, retreats down the hallway towards their private rooms and ducks into the short off-shoot that leads to his own.

***

Peter waits an appropriate amount of time. Sheds the mess of his underwear and jeans, showers, brushes his teeth, changes into his usual boxer shorts and oversized tee for bed. It’s almost three when he turns off the holo-tablet Tony made him for last Christmas and sets it on his bedside. It’s time to just give it up and pray this wasn’t a one-time offer. 

He wonders when the next team-building exercise is scheduled. 

Peter’s got his hand on the switch of his bedside lamp to extinguish it when he hears the knock, so soft he not sure he actually heard it until it comes again, barely audible. He’s out of the bed and to the door before the knock ends, throwing it open. 

Tony’s standing there, looking accessible, touchable even, in sweatpants and tank top, feet bare against the floor. “Hi,” he murmurs.

“Hi,” Peter replies on an exhale, runs a nervous hand through his hair. "Did everyone finally go the fuck to sleep?"

A voice rising faintly from down the hall answers his question. _No, then_ , Peter internally sighs.

But Tony surprises him, thrills him. "I couldn't wait any longer."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starker Bingo 2019 fill for 'jealousy kink'
> 
> Pls enjoy a whopping 13.5k words of pornography. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much to my collaborator Fey, this would never have been half as good or probably seen proper light of day without you. 
> 
> I (ibby) created a... pretty raunchy playlist for Ch. 3 for your enjoyment [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3OyBzBwI0d9QUij9cBk4Tn?si=vihbhUHaQlads4Zso8zIJQ), as well as the moodboard below.

If this were a movie, Peter thinks, he would grab Tony by the front of his fitted tank top, pull him inside, shove him against the door, and finally, _finally_ kiss him. It’s not a movie though, and he feels unexpectedly nervous, as if he hadn’t sunk to his knees in front of this man less than two hours ago.

“You gonna invite me in?” Tony prompts.

Again, the movies, Peter thinks.

But the look in Tony’s eyes is nothing like it; warm, unbearably fond. It’s a joke, obviously, and yes, there’s still heat in Tony’s eyes, still _want_ , but he’s looking at Peter like… like the dog who finally, finally caught up with the car. Like he'd fall to silence, lifelessness, and entropy without Peter there, looking right back at him. Peter steps to the side in silent invitation.

Tony enters and turns, closes the door noiselessly, but doesn’t lock it. He turns and brushes past Peter into the open space of his large bedroom. He doesn’t say a word, just wanders around the perimeter of the room, inspecting the surfaces that have slowly collected the usual trappings of someone’s bedroom; photos, knick-knacks, dog-eared books. Peter dumbly trails after him, watches as Tony picks up a photo of Peter and May from Peter’s 18th birthday. He smiles at it, but doesn’t comment, places it back where it belongs and moves along to the Lego Iron Man figure stood beside lego Chewie and Millenium Falcon.

Tony glances at Peter, turning it over in his hand, eyebrow raised. Peter shrugs, shy. It’s strange, having Tony in this space. He’s suddenly self-conscious, feels the need to make some sort of excuse– it’s not as if Peter ever expected Tony Stark in here at all much less in the middle of the night, about to fuck him. “Lots of kid stuff, I guess.” He tries to make it easy, nonchalant.

"It's your room. Change it if you want."

"Nah, it's not that I don't like it. It's just not... hot."

"This is your enthusiasm made solid. Don't apologize for that. You're right, there's nothing sexy about kid stuff, but enthusiasm? That, I can work with."

Peter _wants_ to be sexy. He wants it to be hot. He wants to come up with something that will make Tony’s eyes go dark in the same way they did at the restaurant that evening, watching Peter down that first oyster. “I can be very enthusiastic.”

"Speaking of which... You gonna make me guess about that?"

Peter laughs, shrugs again. “What do you want to know?”

Tony places the figure back on the dresser, moving along to Peter’s bookshelf. “Just curious when my friendly wall-crawler found time to put the ‘Man’ in Spider-Man. You get yourself a girlfriend?” he says, casually, running his finger down the spine of Peter’s copy of _A Brief History of Time_ , then amends, equally casually, “Or boyfriend.”

Peter sits down on the edge of the bed, propping the heels of his palms on the mattress beside him. “Who said anything about a girlfriend? Or boyfriend,” he says coyly.

This earns another glance from Tony, which he meets squarely, challenging. Tony turns back to the books, scanning. “I’m surprised. I wouldn’t pin you for the one-night stand sort of guy.”

He moves over to Peter’s desk, reaches out to run his fingers over the hand-written notes scattered across the surface, dense with formulas and shorthand. The way his shoulders and back taper sharply in at the waist in that tank top makes Peter feel a little reckless.

“There’s a lot about me that might surprise you.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Tony says, low, still with his back to Peter. He picks up one sheet from the middle of the mess, holds it up, peering at it. “So you really are gonna make me guess, huh?”

“Are you asking?”

“I’m asking.”

“There was a girl—Gwen—I was 17. She’s a friend of MJ’s; I met her at a house party.”

Tony hums, still inspecting the paper. Peter wonders if he’s actually reading what’s written on it. “And did you fuck her? At this house party?”

“No, we made out. She gave me a blowjob, I went down on her.” Peter is proud of himself for keeping his voice steady.

“Did you like that?” Tony sets the paper back down, the personification of indifference.

Peter breathes, once, slowly. “Yes.”

Tony hums, moving along. “What else?”

Swallow. Breathe. “I– We had sex. Her mom was a nurse, worked night shifts. I told May I was at Ned’s.”

“Naughty,” Tony says approvingly. “And how was that? You liked that, too?”

“Y– yeah…”

“Just the one time?” Tony runs his fingers over the fabric of the Spider-Man suit draped carelessly over the back of the desk chair.

Peter curls his fingers around the edges of the mattress, his toes into the shag rug in front of his bed. “A few times.”

“So... not a one night stand.” It’s a statement, not a question. “Was she good?”

“I mean, I was a 17-year-old virgin. Yeah, she was good,” Peter snorts.

Tony puts the suit down, drapes it much more carefully than Peter had. He crosses the door to inspect the posters hung on the adjacent wall. Nothing too embarrassing– Apollo 11, a stylised map of Queens. “Tell me.”

Peter takes a deep breath and exhales. “What do—”

“Anything, kid. Tell me about her.” He looks over at Peter briefly, smirking slightly, assured.

“She was– she had blonde hair. Blue eyes. I liked when she was on top, the way her hair would brush over me.” Peter can’t believe they’re talking about this.

“Sounds nice,” Tony remarks. Peter admires his ability to keep up the facade. “Just her, then? Miss Gwen?”

“No.”

“And what was _her_ name?”

Tony’s moved along past the wall that is basically all windows, towards the foot of the bed, preoccupied now with a dismantled web-shooter Peter had been fiddling with last week. His back is still turned, so he won’t see the smirk on Peter’s mouth, but maybe he hears it in his voice. “ _His_ name was Michael.”

Tony’s eyes snap to Peter’s, over his shoulder, holding momentarily before he looks back at the web-shooter. "Ah, I see. I'm trying to picture how that went down. Can't see you letting some snot-nosed brat soften you up for him. Assuming he wasn't more my generation or anything... Maybe you fucked him, instead? Maybe you wanted to know what all the dirty old men were after, on you? Or am I just wishful thinking?"

Peter’s mouth goes bone dry. But Tony’s not done.

"Not that there's a right or wrong answer. It doesn't matter if you let him inside you. That's your choice always. And it's not like I can't do it well enough to make you forget him." He says it coolly, matter-of-fact, punctuates it by setting the web-shooter back down with a _clunk_.

_Fuck._

Tony seems to be waiting for an answer, though. He’s nearing the bed, peering at a bunch of shell fossils Peter collected on a field-trip as a kid, housed on a shelf on the wall.

_You can do this, Peter._

“Why don’t you start with when,” Tony prompts, all mentorly instruction.

“January. This year. At the– at the charity benefit.”

This _does_ get a reaction, his attention. “Excuse me?” Peter had gone _with_ Tony. As his plus-one. His not-date.

“I met him while you were chatting up that blonde lady– the ambassador.” Peter smiles innocently.

“You–”

“I got tired of waiting for you. And he was really nice.”

Tony is hovering at the foot of Peter’s bed now, but he doesn’t sit. There’s something dangerous flashing in his eyes now, and Peter likes it a lot.

“How nice was he.” It isn’t phrased like a question at all.

Peter’s waiting for Tony to sit down, now that he’s done his circuit. Instead, Tony backtracks, crosses the room to sit in the club chair next to the window. He crosses his legs, waiting patiently.

"He kissed me first, so I didn't have to make the first move. He was... chivalrous,” Peter says, delicate.

“How very kind of him. What a hero.”

"I could feel his facial hair on me when he moved. It was a big step up from Gwen as far as I was concerned."

Tony’s mouth twists, not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. "Did it make you get hard for him? Wet in the clothes I picked for you?"

A blithe smile. “Maybe if you were the type of man who kept track of things like dry-cleaning receipts you would have known the answer to that six months ago.” Peter watches as Tony’s fingers flex into a fist and carefully relax upon the arm of the chair beside him, and pushes his luck. “I told you I was going to May’s for the night.”

“I remember.” The look Peter had been waiting for is back, at odds with Tony’s carefully blasé posture. “Did he touch you in the cab, where someone else could see? Did you let him show you off?”

Peter can feel Tony’s jealousy, doesn’t understand why he wants to know the sordid details. It’s intoxicating, though, far more than the drinks from earlier, long worn off by now.

“I didn’t _let_ him do anything. I _wanted_ him to.”

"And later? Privately? He treated you well. Opened you up for him? Waited until you were begging-"

Peter makes a sound, high-pitched and helpless. "You— _Tony_ —Jesus, how is this hot for you? To hear about this?"

"Because it's you. It's about you. And,” Tony explains intently, “I wanna know where to paper over."

 _Jesus_. Peter would say he doesn't know whether he's hard from the sense memory, or Tony's tone, but he does. He does know.

Tony keeps going, hungry. “Was he sweet to you? Gentle for your first time? Or was it rough?”

“Both,” Peter’s breath hitches. He ignores the urge to press a hand to his dick, just to get some pressure, _anything_.

“Which one was better for you? What would you like?”

Peter takes the invitation gladly. "I'd like it if you'd get up from that chair and come over here.”

Tony is up out of the chair in a flash, advancing. The bed is huge, far bigger than anything Peter’s ever called his own before, but he still slides over, making room beside him. Instead, Tony comes to a stop in front of him, and for half a second Peter’s sure his hands are about to go to the waistband of his own sweatpants, and Peter wouldn’t mind, not really, not at _all_ , but then Tony is kicking Peter’s feet apart with his own. His brain doesn’t really connect the dots until Tony is sliding to his knees between the V of Peter’s spread legs.

“Did he do this?” Tony asks, looking up at Peter from beneath dark lashes. It’s not pretty, not coquettish. He looks feral, wicked.

 _Not like this_. “Yes,” Peter rasps, sounding of vices he doesn’t have. Tony’s hands are resting lightly on his knees, palms curled around each one. Peter’s are curled into fists in the comforter at his sides.

“Can I kiss you?”

The question is unexpected, a facsimile of a polite request considering they both know Peter’s been waiting for Tony to _take_. But it still makes him freeze, and Peter watches, as if from outside himself, as Tony’s eyes dip when Peter’s lips part in exhale, a small gasp, and slowly slide back up to his eyes. Their points of contact are still only Tony’s hands on his knees, and Peter feels a tremor, a sharp thrill sizzle down the centre of him. Tony’s face is tipped up towards him, an invitation, and Peter’s leaning in before he makes a conscious decision to.

Tony makes Peter come to him, does nothing more than tip his chin up, turn his head just slightly, accommodating. Peter can feel his exhale, hot against his own parted lips as he brushes them against Tony’s. It’s barely anything, just a whisper of skin against skin. Peter does it again. He realises he’s holding his breath, knows Tony can both hear and feel his trembling exhale as he forces his lungs into motion.

Their mouths brush a third, a fourth time, and Peter draws back just a little, opening his eyes. Tony’s are closed, lashes fanned out, thick and dark, and Peter watches as he draws an unsteady breath and opens them, staring up at him. He looks… he looks _wrecked_ , and Peter makes a soft sound, understanding that _he_ did this, with just a brush of his lips.

It’s that thought that does it, that knowledge settling like a hot coal somewhere deep in his belly, and suddenly the dam breaks and their lips are pressing, open-mouthed and wet. The relief of it, the absolute rightness of it is at once both overwhelmingly palliative and electrifying. Peter’s hands are on Tony’s face, his neck, in his hair. The hands on his knees are pressing, sliding up his legs and curling around his hips, thumbs slotting into the crease where thigh meets hip.

Their mouths separate and join, again and again, and Peter can feel how Tony is just as breathless as he is, desperately gasping in air between kisses. Definitely not a movie; too messy. Too much tongue (Peter dragging his tongue from Tony’s chin to philtrum, and it shouldn’t be anything but gross, but it’s a _lot_ of other things); too much teeth (deliberate—Tony’s teeth set into Peter’s bottom lip— and not—teeth clacking as they come back together with too much force). It’s inelegant and not a little bit ugly, and Peter doesn’t think he’s ever been this turned on in his life.

Tony groans into Peter’s mouth, his fingers tightening on his hips before thumbs slide deeper towards where Peter’s dick is painfully erect and tenting his shorts. He whines when the fingers stop just short of where he wants them, instead digging into the meat and tendons of his inner thighs to shove them further apart as Tony presses forward, front-to-front. Peter’s dick is sandwiched against Tony’s firm stomach and Peter can’t help the way his hips twitch forward, Tony’s strong fingers around them no match for the reflexive shove.

Tony only groans again, Peter’s own name, into Peter’s own mouth, and his hands are sliding under his loose t-shirt, up and around his ribs to spread out across Peter’s back, pressing their bodies together, encouraging and possessive. Peter slides his own hands from the ruin of Tony’s hair and down his back, fingers catching on the ribbed fabric. He wants it all, wants Tony over him, around him, on him. Peter’s fingers dig in, trying to find purchase in the smooth musculature of Tony’s back, trying to pull him up, off his knees.

Tony pulls back, off of his mouth with a gasp, half-laughing at Peter’s rough pulling. “Slow your roll, eager beaver. I’m not going anywhere.” He ducks his head to mouth wetly at Peter’s neck, just under the ear.

It should be insulting– patronizing. It _shouldn’t_ make Peter’s dick twitch, precome wetting the front of his underwear. Peter huffs, impatient, feeling dumb with arousal. “I want—”

Again, Tony pulls back enough to meet his eyes, squarely. “Don’t you think I know what you want? After everything?”

Peter whimpers, his mouth opening and closing, guppy-like.

Tony leans in, lips brushing Peter’s ear. “I’m going to give it to you. You just have to trust me. You think you can do that for me?” Peter nods mutely, cheek rubbing along the coarseness of Tony’s jaw. “I got down on my knees for a reason, you know.”

Peter groans as Tony’s hands return to his hips, putting space back between their bodies. He watches as those calloused fingers, blunt and scarred, skim along the waistline of his boxes, under the hem of his shirt. Peter leans back slightly, propping himself on the heels of his hands behind him to push his hips forward, encouraging.

“He did this for you? Michael-from-the-gala?”

“Blew me? Yeah,” Peter says, staring down the line of his body to where Tony’s hands, still hidden under his shirt, are curling under the elastic of his boxer shorts. He still can’t believe this isn’t a dream. He’s been having this dream, _specifically_ , since before he ever even met the man.

“Like this? On his knees for you?”

“N–no.”

“And what about frat-party-Gwen?”

“It wasn’t a frat par–”

“Did she do it, Peter?”

“No. Not like… not like this.”

“Good.”

Tony’s fingers slide out from his waistband, but before Peter able to feel disappointed, his t-shirt is being lifted, bunching up under his arms until he raises them, ducks his head to slip it up and off. The discarded shirt is tossed somewhere behind, and Tony spreads a hand across Peter’s bare chest, pushing him back on his palms again, elongating the line of his torso. Tony’s hands immediately frame his ribcage, sliding down, admiring, and Peter arches his back, pressing into the touch.

“ _God_ , you’re gorgeous,” Tony breathes.

“ _Please–_ ” And, ok, so he’s not above begging. Peter’s ok with that. He thinks Tony might be, too, if the way he leans forward to press his mouth to the centre line of Peter’s abs, breath fanning hotly against the tight muscles is anything to go by.

“I’ve thought about this, you know. Thought about you.” His lips brush against Peter’s skin, ticklish in a way that makes him press further into it instead of flinch away, wanting more.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, kid. Been thinking about you a lot lately.”

“Been thinking about you a lot since I was fourteen.” _You gonna get a move on?_ Peter thinks, but doesn't say. "You're not just a wet dream for me, Tony; you're _the_ wet dream."

Tony draws back slightly, looking up at Peter like he doesn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or devour him whole. It’s the same look Peter caught in the car window, sans incredulous shake of the head.

“You’re such a _brat_.” He says it fervently, like it’s a compliment, like, ‘you’re so beautiful,’ ‘you’re so smart’, ‘I _adore_ you.’

Peter just grins and slides his hips forward to the edge of the bed. _Go on, then._

It seems to happen like snippets of film: Tony’s face pressed into Peter’s hip, his breath hot against Peter’s cock, right through the thin fabric of his shorts. Tony’s fingers, hooked back around Peter’s hips, thumbs mapping the sharp V that arrows down into his shorts. He noses into the dampness of the fabric, inhaling. It’s a little bit gross, and a lot hot. Peter’s hips are twitching helplessly, trying to get that mouth on his dick.

“I’m going to give you exactly what you want. I’m going to give you things you don’t even know you want yet.” The bass of Tony’s voice soaks into Peter’s pelvic bone and he shudders.

Finally, Tony’s mouth is pressing along the hard line of Peter’s dick through the shorts, his tongue soaking through them, the fabric turning entirely transparent. Peter can see his cock through the blue and white striped fabric. Tony can too, obviously, hums into it, against it, “You’re perfect.”

“ _Please._ ” It comes out a little strangled, but the fact that Peter’s able to get anything out that resembles understandable English at this point he feels is an accomplishment.

Peter shifts forward, trying to get his hands in on the action, taking his weight off of where they were propping him up, but Tony is immediately pushing him back so that he has to catch himself on them again. “Ah, ah. Stay. Can you do that for me, honey?”

At his assurance, Tony rewards him by fitting his mouth around the head of Peter’s dick, tongue dragging rough against the fabric. It feels fucking crazy, and Peter’s pretty sure he could come just from this. Tony won’t let him, though. He mutters something, mouth half-fitted around the shape of Peter’s dick through his shorts, something about showing him how it’s _really_ done.

He does take pity, though, eventually, at least letting Peter raise his hips enough to slide the shorts down, just enough to expose his cock, already slick with pre-come and spit. Tony tucks the elastic of the waistband behind Peter’s balls, where it rides up against his perineum, stretched and taut, like the press of a knowing finger. His mouth, when he finally gets around to applying it, feels good enough that Peter could cry.

One hand leaves his waist. The firm ring Tony’s fingers create around the base of Peter’s erection lets him know that he’s expected to wait. Hold on. Possibly ask permission. And yeah, Peter’s nineteen and ultra-sensitive, but at least he’s not fourteen and ultra-sensitive anymore. He’s had a few years to practice, and a few partners to practice on. Tony doesn’t make it easy, though—of _course_ he doesn’t—gives Peter a run for his money. It’s easily the best head he’s ever received (and while, true, Tony doesn’t have _that_ much competition, Peter’s pretty certain it wouldn’t really make a difference if he’d slept with a _hundred_ people).

Point of pride, grasping at what little control he has left to exert, Peter tries to stifle the sounds that are coming from his mouth. Gasps turn to short inhales, moans bitten off into small, desperate noises of surprise. If it weren’t for the reminder that Tony’s firm hands at his waist provide, Peter would be shoving his hips forward, trying to get more. He could overpower him, obviously, but Peter likes the illusion; it’s flattering to the both of them.

Tony clearly wants the noises though, greedy and impatient. "Oh, no, don't hold back now. You've swallowed enough delicious things, I'd think, recently. Time to share these ones with the class."

He stares avidly up at Peter as he works the head of Peter’s dick, drinks them in the same way he’s been drinking in Peter with his eyes and hands for the last few months.

Peter pretends like he really has a choice either way.

He tries really hard to burn the visual of this into his brain forever, so he can keep it, revisit it once Tony has gotten bored and moved on: Tony knelt between his thighs, thumb still pressing and pulling at Peter’s adductor to keep him spread in a near-split, other hand around the base of his dick as he licks a long stripe up the underside. Peter groans at the sight, and is immediately rewarded by Tony’s mouth closing over the head and taking him down to the root.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ ”

It’s taken Peter years of practice to combat his enhanced sensitivity and gain what stamina he has. But this, he thinks, as the roughness of Tony’s facial hair scrapes against his pelvic bone, is pushing it. And he knows Tony, so smart, so perceptive, will know that. It’s a challenge.

Tony pulls off just long enough to rasp, voice utterly wrecked, _fucked out_ , “Good boy, Peter. You’re being so good for me, sweetheart,” and takes him down again.

There are tears blurring Peter’s vision by the time Tony next pulls off to breathe, rubbing his cheek down the length of it, spit smearing everywhere. The bristles of his short beard feel shocking, borderline painful against the sensitive skin. Peter’s pretty sure every muscle in his body is currently clenched, he’s trying so fucking hard to hold on.

_You’ve got this, you’ve got this. You can do this, Peter._

The remaining hand on his hip slides off as Tony catches his breath, dragging his open mouth along the length of Peter, sloppy and debauched. He’s looking up at him as he moves his hand deliberately, sliding it down to hook into the elastic band still stretched over Peter’s trembling thighs. The message is clear: _I’m trusting you to behave, to be good._

Tony does all the work of divesting him of his underwear, lifts Peter’s ankles out of them one at a time as he simultaneously does something complicated and mind-blowing with his tongue around the head of Peter’s cock. For the first time tonight (this week, the last two months), a distant klaxon goes off in the back of Peter’s head, and he thinks there’s a chance he might be in a little over his head.

All his concentration is going into staying completely still, to the point where his eyes are squeezed shut, his abs and thighs are shaking with the effort. It’s at least something to focus on instead of the heavy heat building in his gut. That is, until Tony literally laughs around his dick (and _that’s_ an interesting feeling), pulling off to jack him leisurely.

“I didn’t mean you couldn’t move, kid. By all means. Just– I do know what you’re capable of. A little control is all I’m asking.”

“You’re asking me for a little control? Really?”

Tony only grins and sinks further onto his calves so he can still look up at Peter while he laves his tongue down over Peter’s sac and takes in his balls one at a time, gently, into the hot cradle of his mouth. Index and middle fingers replace the press of the waistband on the smooth skin behind, clever, knowing just how firm to press.

“I feel like–… I should— _ah_ – point out here that technically I am still just—fuh- _uck_ —human.”

“There’s nothing ‘just’ about you, kid. You’re doing so well, you’re perfect.”

“Okay but–” Peter falls back on his elbows helplessly, can’t even bring himself to watch as Tony works his mouth back up Peter’s dick, pointed tongue tip mapping out his dorsal vein all the way up to the head.

Tony goes back to work, building a steady rhythm, interrupting it as soon as Peter begins to settle into it, to pull back and press the tip of his tongue against Peter’s slit, punishingly firm, or even off entirely so that he can set his lips and teeth against the crease of Peter’s hip, leave a mark. It’s an exercise in extreme control, the way Tony won’t let him get used to any one thing. Peter had thought he’d conditioned himself well; it had hardly taken more than a couple strokes back when he first got bit. There was a year or two of frequent laundry loads and hair-trigger erections, certainly not aided by meeting the subject of his fantasies, sitting on the bed Peter had just changed the sheets of that morning. But he’s rapidly losing his grip on this, fraying dangerously at the edges.

Tony swallows him down again, teasingly brief, before he pulls off a comfortable amount. His fingers curl into Peter’s outer thighs where they rest on the bed, and he pulls _up_ , jerking Peter’s hips forward. Peter gets it; he’s allowed to move. Encouraged to. He flexes his hips up experimentally, is rewarded by Tony groaning around him, which– _God_.

“Do that again, _please_ ,” Peter gasps. Tony immediately complies, moaning luxuriously around Peter. “Oh– _fuck_. Fuck, I’m gonna–”

Tony settles onto his heels, pulling back slightly so only the head still remains in his mouth, and looks up at Peter, waits ‘til they have eye contact and makes a _come hither_ motion with both hands.

“You– oh my god,” Peter stutters out before hitching forward right to the edge of the mattress, propping his heel against the bed-frame for something to push against. Tony stays still, mouth lax and welcoming around Peter as he starts moving. There’s no finesse to it, no smoothness, and there’s no way he’s going to last more than a few seconds of this.

Tony’s hands drift back onto him, though not to control or suppress. He replaces one of them back on that stretch of skin behind Peter’s sac, stroking just so. The other wraps around his ankle and strokes up his calf, over the back of his knee, around and over Peter’s straining thigh and to his inner thigh.

Embarrassingly, that’s what does it. Not the clever stroking fingers, and not the accommodating wet heat he’s pushing into (well, ok– maybe it’s _little_ bit that and the way Tony’s still looking up at him, like he’s waiting, _go ahead and use me_ ). It’s that hand on his inner thigh again, familiar in a way that pulls that string in Peter’s belly and suddenly he’s coming with a choked cry.

He makes to pull out, courteously, but Tony’s hands snap back to his hips to still him, then around to cup his ass, fingers digging into the clenched muscles, pulling Peter forward and back down his throat and Peter thinks he may just pass out backwards onto the bed. By the time Tony finally does release him Peter is sagging bonelessly into the comforter, fists balled over his eyes, gasping at each movement of Tony’s lips and tongue on his over-sensitive flesh. He’s hardly aware of anything outside of the ringing in his ears until he feels Tony’s hands under his armpits, hauling him up on the bed and the weight of his body settling on the mattress beside him.

The fingers stroking through his hair are what brings him back. He hadn’t even realised his eyes had been shut, but he opens them to the sight of his own fingers twisted into the front of Tony’s tank top. He’s still breathing hard, and his hearing expands past the thundering sound of his own heart and lungs to find that Tony is murmuring reassuringly into his hairline, lips brushing Peter’s forehead, voice a low hum. His chin is scraping against the bridge of Peter’s nose and Peter pushes into it, nuzzles his face into the roughness of Tony’s throat.

Tony’s chuckle reverberates through his skin, buzzes against Peter’s cheek, and then the hand in his hair is cupping the side of his face as Tony pulls back to look at him. “Alright?”

Peter looks up at him, the familiar lines of his face, so long admired. The slope of his nose, the dark fanning of lashes that are downright feminine in contrast to the hard line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, which are reddened and puffy from abuse. _I did that_ , Peter thinks, and cranes up to press his own to them. Tony’s mouth parts immediately, inviting him in, and Peter can’t believe he gets to have this, can taste himself in Tony’s mouth.

It sets something sparking through his veins again, not as urgent as before but Peter knows it will be. He unwinds his fingers from Tony’s shirt and reaches around his body, pulling their chests flush. Every individual ridge of the ribbing of Tony’s tank feels distinct against Peter’s skin, and it’s too much, he needs skin on skin. He works his hands under the hem of Tony’s shirt as Tony hums into his mouth, rolls it up and lets his fingers skim over the firm muscles of his torso as he goes.

When he finally gets the offending garment up under Tony’s armpits, Peter doesn’t bother pulling away enough to let him yank it off, just presses forward. He can feel the way Tony’s ribcage expands around his lungs, the press and retraction of his taut stomach, the way the flare of his hip-bones seem to almost frame Peter’s own. His mind’s downward path leads him inevitably, and, he realises suddenly, for the first time since Tony showed up at Peter’s door, to the thick line of Tony’s hard dick against Peter’s thigh. It’s entirely involuntary, the way his thigh twitches forward, and so is the needy sound that bubbles up in his throat when Tony’s cock _flexes_ against his quad. Peter can feel how big it is, _fuck_ , of course it is, _of course he would be_ , and he really needs to get his hands on it, like, _yesterday_.

Peter uses his strength to his advantage, crowds right against Tony and practically on top of him, pressing him back into the bedding, nosing into his prickly jaw again as they settle, Tony’s hands all over Peter’s back, up and down from shoulder to tailbone, then slipping down over his bare ass. He squeezes and makes an appreciative sound into Peter’s hair again.

He sounds wrecked, overwhelmed; it makes Peter feel powerful, and he presses his mouth, bold and not a little bit sloppy, to the fibrotic arc reactor scar over Tony’s sternum. He can feel Tony’s sharp inhale against his tongue more than he can hear it, which is saying something. Tony’s fingers slide into his curls again, like coming home, winding just this side of too-tight, already fluent in exactly how Peter likes it. He presses up against Peter’s mouth while simultaneously pulling Peter down, like it’s his dick instead of the irregular ripple of scar tissue.

“God—you _would_ —nobody’s–”

Peter cuts him off. “You can’t be serious.” His words are slurred wetly against Tony’s chest. He sounds drunk. He thinks he might be, cliché lines reverberating around his head, _drunk on you, drunk on the way you smell, drunk on the taste of your skin._

Tony chuckles raggedly, breathless. “People get freaked out. Even more so than when it was still in there. Something about scars— _God_ , Peter, do you have any idea how _distracting_ —”

Peter does have some idea, actually, considering he manages to get the drawstring of Tony’s sweatpants undone one-handed and is pushing the waistband over the swell of his iliac crest before Tony catches up. The fingers that curl around his wrist, stopping him, are rough and strong.

"We don't have to do this.” Tony says into his temple. “That—this—can be enough."

Peter doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry, makes a sound that might qualify as both, and repeats himself, “You _can’t_ be serious.”

“I am,” Tony says, pulling away, rolling them back over, Peter going pliantly. He says it again, firmer: “I am serious. We don’t need–”

“I _want_ this.” Peter’s not above begging, honestly, at this point.

Both of Tony’s hands are cupped around his face now, tender and greedy all at once, a parched man at a cool, clear pool. "Peter, is this. I know this is what you want, but... is this how you wanted it?"

It’s the way Tony is holding his face like it’s a precious heirloom, that douses the fire in Peter’s brain, not the words. It’s a look Peter has grown accustomed to seeing on Tony’s face over the years, each time looking a little more painful, a little more desperate. Peter had always thought it would get better as he got older, wiser, proved himself in the field, only to find the opposite. Though something seems to slot into place with a satisfying click, and he suddenly needs Tony to understand, explicitly, no remaining doubts.

"I've thought about it a million ways. Romantic. Rough. Dirty. Sweet. Sad, a few times. Sometimes I just get a flash of a tie that I've seen you wear... Sometimes I want you in a club. We come out of a dim corner and my knees are aching. You force a sip of something on me to help with the taste, and I spit booze and jizz on the floor. Sometimes we're together for ages and you take me to Italy and we make love. It's– It hardly matters is my point. If it's you."

The sentiment overwhelms Tony. Peter can see that it does, clear as day in the shine of Tony’s eyes and suddenly Peter needs to feel and not think. He doesn’t want to linger on the idea that he’s maybe given too much of himself away. Again.

More importantly, he doesn’t want Tony to think too much on it, either. For that, he has just the thing, and it involves pulling Tony into a towering kiss, the older man veritably gasping into Peter’s mouth with the intensity. Peter lets a little of his strength show in the way he encourages Tony to lean over him; Peter wonders if he likes it.

And then, because Spider-Man is not just strength but speed and wit, too, Peter slips out from half-underneath the bulk of Tony’s compactly muscled form and lets the older man collapse into Peter’s pillow, lets him breathe him in where before he was tasting his mouth. Tony groans into the soft material like he misses Peter already, and it’s gratifying, to say the least.

Peter throws a leg around the wild violin curve of Tony’s hips as he goes, and ends up straddling the man’s buttocks. He leans forward on a whim to nose a line up Tony’s back, material shifting up and out of the way as he goes, reveling in the sheer level of allowance he suddenly has. After all these years, fuck, after starting out with not-a-hugs and not-touches in the lab, mentorly shoulder pats and arms-lengths of distance between them that felt like leagues, god, this is so much freedom.

 _Some things_ , Peter thinks, like swinging and flipping and fucking Tony Stark… well. _They’ll never get old_.

Satisfied with the way his ministrations up Tony’s spine have caused a minor tremor that Peter can feel under his palms, Peter decides to go back the other way. He feels absolutely no shame whatsoever at the way his breaths puff along Tony’s lumbar region. His skin is smooth—mature, yes, and different from Peter’s—but clear and healthy and all spread out so perfect and even for Peter that he half expects his breathing to leave fog behind on it.

All those feelings are totally aside from the fact that, as soon as they are revealed from beneath the twice-damned sweatpants, Peter feels an overwhelming urge to bite into one of Tony's lovely ass cheeks, which. Huh. Maybe Peter’s arachnid drive is stronger than previously believed. He lets that thought carry him through the necessary motions of getting Tony’s clothes all the way off.

Tony tries to get up, bringing his arms underneath—probably to try and self-deprecatingly protest Peter’s actions as his intent becomes abundantly clear—but Peter presses him down with a hand on his back, and dips forward to pull Tony’s ass toward him for a good, strong taste.

Tony swears into Peter’s pillow. Peter grins before going back to it, luxuriating in the way Tony’s moans vibrate not just into the mattress and through the older man’s body, but into Peter’s head as well. It’s the opposite of anxiety, that sound. It’s the opposite of sirens or screams or the low-volumed, high-pitched whine of anxiety that Peter just _lives with_ , on a day-to-day basis. No, this is loud and strong and rumbling and it means Peter’s doing good. It means Peter is _good_.

Peter luxuriates, laving at the whorl under his tongue, losing himself in providing such an esteemed service. Tony is clean and groomed and perfect in the way that rich folks always seem to manage, and Peter presses into him, chasing the barest edge of sweat like it’s a clue, like it’s evidence in the overwhelming case he is building that _holy fuck_ , Tony actually wants him. Tony actually sat through a dinner and a car ride and time on a jet and he sat there poised as could be while their friends got hammered and the whole time he was hiding this body from Peter even as Peter practically put himself on display-

What a fucking crime.

Peter presses all that knowledge into Tony’s hole, tongue spearing into him and then plucking at the rim as he withdraws and Tony reacts like he’s going to shake apart. ( _Good_ , Peter thinks viciously.)

He’s so intent and caught up in nibbling and sucking and testing the stretch of Tony on his tongue that Peter misses it when Tony tries to get up again. He only really notices when his feelings and the sensations of eating Tony out overwhelm him and he’s pushing his face into Tony’s plush backside, not sure at this point who is pleasuring whom.

“Jesus, fuck, you know- not that I'm complaining, but we don't have to do everything all at once?" Tony reminds him, voice hoarse.

“What, can’t take it?” Peter pants back. He smooths Tony back down into the mattress and just redoubles his efforts, really laying into the older man. He wants to show off a bit too, so sue him; he's not some fumbling virgin here, ok.

Peter gets a thrill even thinking that, even thinking about how jealous Tony had been a moment ago, to find out that someone else had had Peter first. Oh, but they never did this. No one’s ever had their mouth on him like his is on Tony. And the jealousy, god, it’s hot. It makes Peter feel wanted. He won’t lie about that.

But even better is the _trust_ , the trust that is jealousy’s twin because Tony hadn’t left him, hadn’t pretended he was a piece of fruit with a bite disappointingly already taken out of him. No, Tony trusts him and Peter knows that so so intimately. He knows it from Tony’s words but also in the way the older man’s furrow is softening under Peter’s praise and worship. He’s relaxing. He’s comfortable. He’s so, so loved.

Peter never realized how much it would mean to him, to _feel_ Tony feeling that. It makes Peter feel alternately soft and sharp, like he both wants to baby his partner to the gentlest crescendo of an orgasm known to man, coming in like the tender, titan tide or, alternatively, like he wants to _ruin_ Tony with a screaming, wild fuck. Honestly, he’s not sure which, he just knows that even as he presses a punctuative kiss to Tony’s rim that he needs one or the other, like, _now_.

Tony tries again, as Peter takes a breather, to talk sense, although his voice sounds like he’s half out of his mind. "Oh, God okay this is, holy- but. Peter, Pete, baby. I thought you wanted me to fuck you tonight? You were practically begging me this whole time."

Peter pulls away so Tony won’t have to strain his ears. "Honestly, they're not mutually exclusive. I still want that, fuck do I want that, want _you_. But I wasn't gonna lose my chance to do _this_ either."

Tony lets out a shaky laugh that says all it needs to. Peter can practically hear the joy and the admonishment bubbling up, the ‘ _you greedy little twink_ ’ that goes unsaid. It’s nice to speak his desires into the air, letting them live in the heated space between them.

"Been thinking about it for _years_ , God–" Peter specifies, because he can. Tony laughs again, rolling to his back and stretching, languid, even as he reaches for Peter.

“As amazing as that notion is, I think I’ve got to put a stop to it, for real, because you were about to make a liar out of me and all my promises to take you apart, kid.”

 _Oh_. Oh. “What promises?” Peter fishes. He wants to hear it again.

Tony reaches out for him and they kiss again, filthy and with so much care. Peter sneaks a hand between them to feel how hard Tony is from rutting into the mattress while Peter licked him into oblivion. There’s so much precome there, he realizes with a thrill, that Peter’s left at a loss as to how it hadn’t slicked up around Tony’s sac for Peter to taste a moment ago.

He’s suitably turned on at how much Tony is turned on, but that pales in comparison to the fire lit in him at Tony’s next words. “Oh, sweetheart, surely you remember,” the older man says. “I did promise to fuck you ‘til you can't remember the names of those who came before, didn’t I? And until you’re utterly ruined for anyone coming after? Or was that just in my head?”

( _Keep talking like that_ , Peter thinks wildly, _and there won’t be anyone coming after_.)

As if Peter has ever or could ever want anyone else. As if he’s not about to expire on the spot anyway, from raw sexual need, making it a moot point.

Something of that must show on his face, because Tony speaks again and his voice is low and fervent and scorching. "Part of me wants to return the favour, give you a run for your money, baby."

Peter groans, a stitched-together sound; it would have been broken with anyone else but for Tony’s balm, his healing effect on Peter’s raw desire.

"But I think I'll save it for another night. Want you now, wanna be inside you... you want that, honey?" Tony rasps, gaze dark and lingering like something Peter could _wear_.

Peter’s head is nodding before his brain even has the time to think, _Yes_.

“Say it. Say it for me, baby.”

“Yes, God, yes _please_.”

It’s like flipping a switch, pressing the big red button. Tony pushes Peter to his back, rough, and shoves one thigh up, hooking Peter’s knee over his shoulder, straddling Peter's other thigh as Peter blindly reaches up and then shoves the bottle of lube stashed between the mattress and headboard (old habits die hard) into Tony's hands. There’s no awkward fumbling (Gwen), no comical excess of lube (Michael), just Tony’s economical preciseness, and then the perfect press of blunt fingers.

And it's… it’s fucking masterful, the symphony of it: Tony's fingers working him open, the hard line of his cock against Peter's thigh, basically riding it, the purposeful weight of him pressing down over him, knowing Peter can take it, and Tony's _mouth_ , fucking hell. He won't shut up, feeding Peter praise, lips against ear, his mouth, pressing the words in with his tongue.

There’s something borderline sick about it, animal, _feral_ , like being force-fed, and Peter swallows them all, covetous, carnivorous.

He grits out, "I knew you'd be like this. I knew you'd run your mouth."

Something gleams in Tony’s eyes at this, and he gives an almost cruel twist of his fingers inside Peter. "You thought about it a lot, huh, kid? Tell me. Tell what you thought about.”

"I can't– Jesus Christ, _Tony_ –"

"Tell me and I'll do it. Tell me how you've thought about it and I'll give it to you, Peter."

Peter tells him. It's not like he's lacking in choices. He has five years of near-daily fantasies. Some of them are more well-worn than others.

"It's such a toss-up, because I, I mean–” It’s a struggle to keep his voice steady with three of Tony’s thick fingers working in and out of him. He breathes, tries again, “I want you _deep_ , I want you to erase everything else inside me, so that's like... That'd be easier from behind. But I wanna see your face, too, I want you in my face, in my mind, in my ear with- with your breath and your words, I want it all, please please please don't make me _choose_ -"

Tony cuts him off with a spat curse and the hungry press of his mouth, consumes his groan as he withdraws his fingers.

He’s saying something against Peter’s lips, and has to repeat it a few times before Peter realises he’s asking for a condom, which–

“Why?”

Tony draws back, propped on one elbow, wet fingers at Peter’s hip again, and looks down at Peter like he’s every bit still technically a teenager. “What do you mean, ‘why’?”

Peter gets it, he does; Tony lived through the 80s and early 90s. But they’re both clean, and they both know it. “I mean why would we? I trust you with my life.”

Tony stares down at him for a moment, expression complicated, somewhere between devastated and incredulous, before he lowers his forehead to Peter’s sternum.

“You gorgeous little idiot,” he hums into Peter’s skin, then lifts his head to meet his eyes again. “Fine, have it your way. You _unseat_ me with your earnestness, Jesus fucking Christ.”

Tony’s reaching for the lube again, and Peter grabs the bottle from his fingers. “Let me,” he breathes. “Let me.”

Tony relinquishes the bottle and raises his chest up slightly to allow Peter access as Peter tosses the bottle to the side and reaches down for him. He wraps his fingers, arm stretched as far as he can with his leg shoved against his chest still, around the head of Tony’s cock. The glancing touch earlier had already confirmed his suspicions, but having it fully in his hand, fingers not even making it all the way around, is overwhelming.

_So much for overcompensating with the flashy cars._

Tony makes a low sound and thrusts forward, into the tunnel Peter’s fingers have created, spreading the lube from tip to root until he’s flush with Peter’s dick, hard again against his belly. He’s too big to get his fingers around the both of them at the same time, so Peter cups his hand over Tony’s shaft and pushes him down against himself, twitching his own hips up in encouragement for Tony to continue. Peter’s not small by any means, he knows that, but for the first time in his life he feels it, looking down at where they are sliding messily together, lube everywhere. He’s not sure why the sight makes him even harder, heat flushing across his face, neck, and chest.

He glances up to see Tony watching him, knowing smirk on his face, and Peter gives his chest a retaliatory shove with his free hand. “Shut up.”

Tony laughs. “I didn’t say anything. Seems like you might have something to say, though.”

Peter groans, tightening his fingers around Tony’s dick and pressing him harder against himself. “As if your ego needs further stroking.”

He doesn’t miss the way Tony’s voice catches on his exhale, counts it as a win despite the steadiness of his voice when he speaks. “I’d say you’re already doing a pretty good job of that, kid.”

This time Peter laughs, tipping his head back into the pillows. “So corny.”

Tony presses his answering grin into the long line of Peter’s exposed throat. “You love it,” he murmurs, lowering himself, Peter’s knuckles dragging against his pubic hair as Tony fucks into Peter’s loose fist.

“Just fuck me.”

He’s being manhandled over onto his stomach before the words are even fully out. He pulls Peter’s hips up, gets him up on his knees, legs spread wide so the tip of his cock brushes against the duvet. Peter tries to prop himself up on his hands but Tony immediately pushes him down to his elbows with a splayed hand between his shoulder-blades.

“Stay down.” Peter can feel Tony shift behind him until he gets his knees between Peter’s, his hands on Peter’s ass. “You look incredible like this. You should see yourself.”

Peter makes a sound halfway between a whimper and a groan, drops his head down between his shoulders and pushes his ass up against Tony, spine bowing dramatically. “ _Please._ ”

Tony doesn’t bother with a reply, just lines himself up, covers Peter’s back with his chest, one palm planted next to Peter’s elbow and the other sliding around to splay over Peter’s chest, over his heart. When he starts pressing in, Peter is immediately sure he can’t take him. He gasps in, in, in, holds his breath and balls his hands into fists. Tony’s face is in his neck, though, and he’s moaning praise like filthy benediction.

"I know you can do this, god. You resist me so well, you bite back, you're fucking _fighting me_. Your little song and dance at the restaurant notwithstanding, I _knew_ , I fucking knew you'd soften for me. Relax, honey. Come on, there you go. Jesus, kid, I-"

And Peter remembers to breathe, remembers to bear down, remembers how to do this. He lets himself take it, can feel the exact moment his own body gives and almost sobs when he feels Tony slide all the way home. He forces himself to stay open, stay relaxed as Tony’s hips settle against his ass. The praise has tapered off into a low moan, punctuated by “God, _Peter_ ,” ground out like Tony wants to tattoo it into the nape of Peter’s neck.

Peter pushes back against Tony, forcing him deeper, a marker on untouched flesh. He tips his head back, inviting Tony’s mouth to the vulnerable skin over his carotid artery, sure it is visibly pulsing along the tendon pulled taut by the angle of his jaw. “Go,” he rasps, uncurling his fists to beckon Tony forward. “You can go,” and Tony does.

He’s almost polite about it. Almost. He starts slow, but still deep, all the way in and all the way out. It’s too teasing to quite fit the descriptor, though, knowing what he does about Peter’s strength. Peter’s thankful, not for the first time, that Tony, despite the desire to please and provide, is also impatient and self-serving by nature, though; it’s not long before he’s built a steady rhythm, breath gusting in heavy drags over Peter’s ear.

Tony's literally all over him. He's not afraid of crushing him, Peter knows. Not afraid to completely cover Peter's body with his own- deceptively larger, covering all the edges of Peter beneath him, around him and over him. And the thing about Peter's sensitivity? He really did train himself out of that hair-trigger response. And he does it by focusing on everything else. And there's so much else to feel, that Tony's giving him, other than the shove of his hips, the feeling of his dick filling Peter up, further, deeper than anyone or anything has been before. Peter can zero in on the little things, direct his focus.

The way the hair on Tony's thighs scratches against the hairless backs of Peter's. The sharpness of Tony's hip-bones as they snap against Peter's ass. The sweat sliding along the scorching length of his back pressed nape to ass against Tony's chest, stomach, pelvis. Peter can feel the irregular texture of Tony’s arc reactor scar between the bones of his shoulder-blades and suddenly wishes the housing unit were there, digging into his skin. Wants him to leave a mark that will last ‘til morning, wants to see it there like a brand on his skin, iron to flesh.

The way Tony's arm is wound around Peter's chest like a steel trap, nowhere to go, and those clever fingers brush knowingly over Peter's nipple, maddeningly unpredictable. And, _oh_ , the burn and scrape of Tony's jaw rubbing into the soft skin below Peter's ear now that he’s given up on pressing his mouth to it, breathing too heavily. He bares his neck to it, offers it freely, relishes it, wants to be flayed down to his bones by this.

The exertion doesn’t stop Tony’s mouth from running, though; if anything it gets worse. The litany of praise Tony keeps up in his ear, the compliments, the saccharine pet names that sound anything but nice, tug at something low inside Peter's belly, flaring brilliantly like water on a grease fire.

Then there's the smell of Tony. It's everywhere around Peter, thick on his tongue, coating his throat with every breath. It should be cloying, overwhelming, but Peter draws it in, breathes deep through his nose, wants to take it deep in his lungs, fill his belly with it. He wants it to soak into him, something he'll never be able to sweat out. The cologne and aftershave of that morning, nearly a full day ago now, are faint undertones underneath the smell of clean sweat, the heady cocktail of pheromones that floods Peter’s ultra-sensitive olfactory system. If he were able to, he’d bury his nose in the damp crook of Tony’s armpit, wouldn’t even care that it’s weird, gross, would want to _taste_ it.

Tony picks up the pace, shoving into Peter, and Peter feels his elbows go out from under him, face pressed into the pillows. His knees slide open, hips sinking down, Tony’s body pressing him into the mattress. He’s gone down on one elbow himself, fingers in perfect proximity to wind into Peter’s hair again, tugging and petting, maddening. He’s still got one arm wrapped around Peter’s heaving chest, hand trapped under their combined weight. He hasn't even touched Peter's dick, and Peter’s own hands are in fists in the pillowcase above his head. It doesn't matter though, he doesn't think he's ever been this hard, including 30 minutes ago with his dick down Tony's throat.

He feels Tony shift, settle to accommodate the lack of leverage, and slides his feet over Tony’s calves, curling his toes around the shape of the muscles. Peter forces his head to the side, gasping for more air. It’s at once too much and just enough. He feels like he’s drowning (or being crushed, which, he _is_ ) and being rescued, saved, resuscitated all at once.

Tony's saying his name in his ear, almost like he's calling him, and maybe he is: "Talk to me, baby. You with me?"

"Y–yeah. Yes. God, it's just–... a lot, holy fuck."

Tony immediately slows down, lengthens out his thrusts, takes it down a few notches. His weight lifts off Peter and Peter's about to protest until the arm still banded across his chest flexes and he's being brought with him, straightening up and back onto his knees. It helps Peter control his body temperature, which means he can focus on the sexual heat instead of the actual heat that had been melting him—pleasantly, but still—into the sheets. It also lets Peter finally get his hands involved, fingers clamping around Tony's corded forearm still across Peter's chest, the other hand reaching up and behind finding purchase in Tony's hair.

Tony laughs into Peter's ear, breathless, the gust of air ticklish "Careful, kid, I'm doin’ pretty good so far, don't mess this up for me and yank half of it out.”

Tony's chin is hooked over Peter's shoulder, and Peter can practically feel Tony's eyes sliding down his body like warm water. "Look at you," he breathes, and it's got that same quality in which he called Peter a brat earlier, like he can't fucking believe his luck.

Peter tips his head back onto Tony's shoulder, arching, lets himself be put on display for Tony. Tony pulls Peter backwards a little further, so Tony is sitting on his heels and Peter is riding his lap, legs spread over the breadth of his thighs, letting Peter control the pace. Peter's hips cant downwards, the curve of his spine extreme, satisfying. Tony slides the hand not still anchored to Peter’s chest down the length of his front, coming to rest low on his belly.

Tony grunts into Peter’s ear in surprise, swears, “ _Fuck_ –” and changes his angle slightly, spreading his legs and Peter’s by proxy. “Look, baby, Jesus, I’ve never–”

Peter looks down to where Tony's fingers have slid down over his pelvic bone to reveal the long stretch of flesh below Peter’s navel where Peter can see— _fuck_ —he can see Tony’s cock inside him, distending his stomach slightly whenever he meets the shove of Peter’s hips with his own. Tony grabs the hand Peter has wrapped around Tony’s forearm and brings it down Peter’s body and presses it to his own stomach, cover Peter’s hand with his own.

“Holy fuck,” Peter groans, and Tony presses his mouth to Peter’s jaw, humming in response.

Peter cranes his neck, spine bowed, to press his mouth to Tony’s. The hand over his lifts and settles over Peter’s neck, fingers skimming the sharp line of his jaw, covetous and protective all at once.

He turns Tony's words back at him, speaks right against Tony’s mouth. "Tell me. Tell me you wanted me, too."

"I want you. Wanted you. Haven't been able to stop thinking about you."

"When?" It comes out as a gasp, Tony's rhythm still purposefully controlled, measured, precisely aimed so that he brushes over Peter's prostate. Not every time, just enough for it to be teasing, unexpected.

"All the time, kid. I mean it– haven't been able to stop."

(Peter means for how long, of course, but can’t bring himself to ask explicitly, isn’t ready for the risk of rejection with the man still inside him.)

He opts instead for, "Do you think about me when you jerk off?"

"Yeah, I think about you. Every time," he huffs into Peter's ear, like it's ridiculous that he should have to ask. "Think about how gorgeous you are, baby. How strong you are. Think about how smart you are– all the time. You're so fucking smart, Peter."

It’s too much, too close to home, and Peter feels the wire down the centre of him stretch and snap. He doubles over, pulling Tony with him, so Tony is lying on top of Peter again, still inside him as Peter presses his hips, his dick, into the duvet, coming hard and messy. Tony stops, courteous, moves only a little, gentling Peter through it.

"Fuck. _Fuck_ don't _stop_ ," Peter whines, as if Tony's some sort of idiot. He's already grinding his ass back onto Tony's dick, knows Tony can _feel_ the aftershocks rocking through him still.

Tony startles and pauses a moment, then shifts back and off, hands to his quads for a moment to breathe before he looks up and pushes his own damp hair back looking at Peter almost shyly. He seems to hesitate for a moment, caught off guard, which makes Peter clench in aftershock, feeling powerful and desired.

Tony gasps at the feeling. “Fuck, let me— let me see you, baby," and is pulling out, turning Peter over so he can make _sure_.

God bless that radioactive little spider five years ago, because Peter's still fucking hard despite the copious amount of come painting the heaving muscles of his abdomen and pooled on the duvet beside his hip, still spreading his thighs in implicit invitation, chanting, “C'mon, c'mon, _c'mon_ ,” like there's some sort of timer ticking away on this. Tony's looking down at him from where he's kneeling between Peter's legs like he's finally, _finally_ rendered speechless, and Peter needs him, makes a grabby, beckoning motion. Peter meets him halfway, curling up towards him as Tony's hands cup his face, so fucking sweet.

"We don't—... baby, we don't—" Tony tries between kisses.

"Don't you dare fucking say we don't need to do this tonight. I want you to come inside me. I need it."

Tony's eyebrows fly up and he lets out a surprised laugh, ducking his head briefly. He leans back down to where Peter has flopped back against the bedding, presses an almost chaste kiss against his pouting lips. "Ok, ok. I just— Peter I need you to know that this isn't just a one-time thing. Not if you don't want it to be."

Peter looks up at Tony, frustration draining quickly away as Tony pulls back slightly, eyes roving over Peter's face, like he's scanning it, mapping out the fine details of it in his mind. Like he’s worried it will be a one-time-thing, too. He reaches out and pushes the limp curls, damp with sweat, off of Peter's slick brow. "Ok?" he finally prompts.

Peter nods, doesn't think his voice would make it ‘round the lump that has taken up residence inside his throat currently.

"Ok, then," Tony confirms, settling back onto his heels. "Onwards and upwards."

Peter smiles, pulling himself back together, spreads his legs again, bringing his heels together around Tony's back. Tony hitches Peter's hips up and repositions himself, and slides back in with a groan. He falls forward onto one hand above Peter and starts up a slow rhythm.

Hands free to roam, Peter wraps them around Tony's shoulders, his chest, just to feel the muscles working underneath his damp skin. He gets his fingers around Tony's neck and pulls him down into another brief kiss. Tony takes his time, working in and out of him slowly, as if he needs to give Peter time to get worked back up, as if he isn't still rock hard against his own belly, despite still being untouched since coming the first time.

Tony shifts slightly, angles his hips purposefully. He's clearly pleased when Peter's breath hitches as Tony's dick slides across his prostate. "You like that, baby?"

_Yeah, but do **you**?_

Two orgasms in and Peter's brain feels a little less desperate, a little less one-track. He can't help but notice that Tony hasn't seemed to come close to coming yet. He knows Tony's... _experienced_. But maybe that's just it– maybe Peter just doesn't really compare to some of Tony's experiences. It... it makes sense, really– the man basically 'dated' his way through the entire Playboy bunny mansion when Peter was still a little kid, after all. But it still kinda hurts.

And ok, maybe Peter's not thinking quite as clearly as he figured because the thought is immediately out of his mouth, filter apparently currently offline: "Do _you_?"

Tony stops short, pulling back sharply from where he was nosing at Peter's clavicle. "What?"

"No—shit—I didn't–..."

Tony's eyebrows shoot up again in understanding and immediately furrow. "You're serious. You think I'm not enjoying this?"

"No I–... it's just... well, you haven't–" Peter scrunches up his nose and drags a hand down his face. He's fucking this up. "I just mean that I've come twice now. And you... haven't," he finishes lamely.

Tony seems to take a moment, closes his eyes and then fixes Peter with an intent look. "First off, kid, you're forgetting that I'm over twice your age. I've only got one in me at a time. But, there are pros too; with age comes stamina." He smiles, rueful. "Second, you're smarter than that." His hands come around Peter's jawline again, "C'mon, sweetheart, you're smarter than that."

He takes Peter's hand and brings it down to where they're still joined, Tony still rocking just barely into him. He wraps Peter's fingers around the base of his length, thick and rigid. "You feel that? You feel how hard I am? That's all on you."

He unwraps Peter's fingers and pulls them back up, presses them against his neck so Peter can feel Tony's pulse thundering under his fingertips. "Feel that, Peter? I'm sure you can hear it too. Again, all you."

He lets go of Peter's fingers which slide down his chest, pressing his palm flat over Tony's heart, thumping staccato against his skin. "Do you get it? I'm– Peter, I can't remember the last time I was this turned on. Possibly never. You're–" He cuts himself off with another huff, then hitches up one of Peter's thighs again, knee over shoulder like they were when he was fingering him open, and presses in, hips settling into the cradle between Peter's thighs like they’re puzzle pieces locking into place. He leans in, pressing Peter's thigh to his own chest, and brushes his lips over Peter's. "I want to give you everything. Do you understand?"

"Okay– yes. Please," Peter doesn't even know what he's asking for, he just _wants_.

He's grabbing at Tony again, pulling him down into a proper kiss, moaning into it when Tony pulls back and thrusts forward again, and again, and again.

Tony backs off, just slightly, allowing Peter room to arch his back, flexing his hips to meet Tony's thrusts, using his free leg to leverage himself. Tony keeps the pace frustratingly slow, far beyond what Peter is satisfied with. He’s this close to using his strength to his advantage and throwing Tony off him, climbing on him, and doing the job himself. But Tony's mouth is still going, still heaping praise on Peter as he fucks into him.

"Look how well you take me, honey. Look at you. God, just _look_ at you." And, "You have to know how gorgeous you are, Peter. You know that, right, kid? You're the hottest thing I've ever seen." And, "You feel fucking incredible. So fucking flexible, Jesus _Christ_ , Peter, do you have any idea what you do to me?"

Peter feels like he's burning up with it, on fucking _fire_ , and he'll be nothing more than charred bones when this is over. It feels like the room is a fucking sauna; sweat is dripping from Tony's temples and jawline, splashing down onto Peter's chest. He has a crazy urge to taste, wants the salt of it on his tongue and is dragging his fingers through it and drawing them into his mouth before he has a chance to even really make a decision.

Tony grunts, the sound punched out and feral, hips snapping now, leans in to shove Peter's hand away long enough for him to get his mouth over Peter's, wet and salty and filthy, tongues sliding together. He's gone just as quickly, dragging his teeth down Peter's slick jaw, his throat, lapping up the sweat pooled in the hollow between his collar bones and then down to his chest. He spends a while devoted to Peter's right nipple as he shoves into him, sinking down into the mattress so that he can push up hitting Peter's prostate on every pass.

Peter can feel it building in himself a third time, blindly reaches a hand down in the scant space between their bodies to wrap around his neglected dick. Tony catches him by the wrist, though, pins it to the bed beside his head. "Ah ah ah," he pants against the underside of Peter's jaw where it’s tipped back, exposed. "You're going to come again on my cock. From only my cock. Got that?"

Peter whines in response, straining against Tony's grip. He could break it, if he really wanted to, but Tony is shifting again, letting go as he slides Peter's leg off his shoulder and presses their chests together, tacky with Peter’s come, Tony's spit, and both their sweat. Peter's dick is sandwiched between them and he's left to wrap his legs and arms, spider-like, around Tony's narrow hips and muscular back. His fingertips skid, slippery, trying to find purchase, nails digging in to help.

Tony doesn't even flinch, just moans again into Peters' neck, says reverently, "That's it, baby, just like that." And then, "You close, baby? You gonna come for me? Tell me you're going to come for me, Peter."

Peter's not sure what the sounds he's making even are anymore, can't control them, thinks they probably would classify as sobs at this point. His breath is hitching desperately and he can feel the beginnings of tell-tale tingles fizzing up through his fingers, through the arches of his feet and up to his toes where they curl tightly into the small of Tony's back.

"C'mon, Pete, c'mon, baby. Say it. Say it for me."

"Jesus fu– _Tony_ , I'm gonna—" Peter can feel it starting, feel that knot in his belly drawing in, tightening. "I'm gonna, I'm gonna—"

"That's it, like that, say it again. Say my name, Peter."

Tony's arms are hooked under Peter's armpits, balanced on his elbows, his hands fisted in the sweaty wreck of Peter's curls. A clench of his fist, paired with the particularly rough thrust of Tony's hips, and Peter's coming, dick shooting between them, still untouched, again, Tony's name spilling from his reddened mouth. Instead of it being weaker, being the third of the night, Peter feels like he might just dissolve with this one. Might just harden down to a carbon level, left behind only as a tiny, shining diamond. Either that or he's going to fly apart into a million pieces because there's no way a body is meant to contain all this. This can’t be normal. This can’t be how it’s ever felt for Gwen or Michael or Tony, or anyone else, or even Peter, until now.

He can feel himself, in some level of his subconscious, clench impossibly tight around Tony whose hips stutter, jerking at the sudden squeeze. He thinks he can hear Tony's voice in his ear, half-curses bitten off and spat out, and then, on a long moan, Peter's name, followed by the boneless slump of the full weight of Tony’s body, utterly spent. It’s not too much this time, not overwhelming. It’s grounding, holding Peter’s fragile seams together.

It's a long while before either of them are capable of moving, and as he starts to drift back to himself, Peter spares a thankful thought for his enhanced strength, blanketed by Tony's dead weight. Eventually, Tony rouses enough to pull out, wincing and hissing all around, and he limply rolls off to the side with a such a pained groan that Peter’s sure—if it contained actual words—would be full of protests regarding being ‘too old for this,’ and the like.

It's another long while before either of them say anything at all, though. The dim room is filled with the sound of their breaths. Tony's fingers curl around Peter's and bring Peter's hand over his chest, heel of his palm against his heart, fingertips brushing against the spread of scar tissue.

Eventually, Tony heaves a sigh. Peter thinks it sounds satisfied. Resolved. Content. "Told you I knew what you would like."

Peter, too, is resolved and content, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want the last word. Or an answer to his earlier, abandoned line of inquiry. He tries to be subtle. “That the result of years of study? Or are you some kinda genius?” he quips.

“Well yeah, obviously I _am_. But so are you, kid.” A beat. “Why don’t you just ask me the question?”

“Which question?”

A disbelieving breath. “Pete.”

Peter thinks about defying Tony, but post-orgasm, when he already has what he wants, the thought isn’t as appealing as it usually is. He goes for it, blurts, “How long?”

There’s a sigh, then a squeeze to Peter’s hand. “You’re killin’ me here, kid. How long _what_?”

Peter props himself up, reaches over, and gently pulls at Tony’s face so they make eye contact, thumbs at the shock of grey bristle that has slowly appeared on Tony’s chin, salt spilling into pepper over the last few years. “I asked before when you thought about me. I meant, though, when you _started_ thinking about… how long have you wanted me? Because, I– for me, it’s been-”

“A long time?” Tony throws out, dislodging Peter’s hand on his face, and it’s only the questioning lilt to it that makes Peter believe Tony was finishing his sentence for him. He wants it to have been an answer so badly, though.

“Yeah, like I said. For me, you’re _the_ wet dream,” Peter restates. Tony gives him a look like he not only didn’t forget that bit, but that it’s impossible he ever could. It’s easy to bask in a look like that, one that says Tony has the details of Peter’s desire burned into his brain.

Tony maneuvers them around, Peter helping, until they get into a spooning position. The older man’s breath is gorgeous and prickly in the dip of Peter’s shoulder. He’s just glad Tony’s not going to make Peter look him in the eye.

“What do you want me to say here, baby? I feel like no matter what, I’m gonna freak you out. I don’t want to be misunderstood.”

“Caught between a rock and a hard place, I guess,” Peter murmurs. ( _No, that was earlier_ , his inner, comedic child unhelpfully sniggers.) He ignores how it makes him feel and tries to be mature. “Just be honest.”

Tony blows out another breath, and it gusts across the back of Peter’s neck like he’s just gotten a trim, like Tony’s Delilah and he’s just cut Peter’s hair and sapped his Samson strength. “Honest. Okay, well. The truth is, nearly everything I love about you now, you already had when we met. You were already a genius, you were already good, and between early puberty and the spider bite, I mean… not to be gross, but your body hasn’t changed _that_ much–”

Peter makes an involuntary noise.

“... I mean, I never thought about– I would never–”

“No, I know what you’re trying to say,” Peter interjects, tightening Tony’s arm around him.

“It’s… you’ve always been beautiful, kid. But I mean– well, you were a _kid_. You had some growing up to do. Which you’ve done. And I–Pete–you _know_ what a mess I was back then. I’ll always be a mess—it’s probably stamped into my genetic code to be honest—but even if I was the type of person to have those feelings, you wouldn’t have wanted me back then, Peter. Trust me.”

Peter makes an abortive noise. He’d love to say more, to deny that Tony had been lacking in any way. His hero worship has faded now, of course, but he can’t imagine ever having looked at Mr. Stark—even the lonely, back-against-the-wall version he’d first been introduced to—and not thinking him amazing. Maybe that’s the heart of the matter.

“Honestly—and hear me when I say this, please, Peter—the _most_ attractive quality a person can have, in my book, is competence and _maturity_ , which you were lacking just a bit, no offence, and I say all that not to formulate a rejection of you at that age, because I did, already, see so much potential in you and we understood each other, even then, but I just didn’t–… Not in that–”

Peter turns in Tony’s arms and presses his face into Tony’s neck, turns it into a sort of hug. It’s definitely not-not-a-hug. “I know, okay, I understand what you mean. You doth protest too much, old man.”

“Okay,” Tony’s voice susurrates into the close, intimate light of the room. “Alright, I just. I’m sorry if it was ever painful for you, waiting on me to see you. I do. I’ve been slowly trying to show you. I just wanted to be able to give you my best, the best, the best experiences and tastes and feelings, the best years of my _adult_ life while you did the same, with no qualms or reservations. You get that, right, kid?” he asks, drawing back to make eye contact with Peter.

The moment is wide and dark and in IMAX with the way Peter feels it resonating, reverberating in his bones. He thinks, suddenly, that he wouldn’t have had it any other way, not a moment sooner. “I get that. I do,” he vows. “I guess I just wanted to think that I wasn’t alone in my pining, you know? Now that. Now that that’s over?”

 _Please, let the pining be over_ , he thinks.

"Well, kid. You were, for a while. I wasn't right there with you in the pining or anything, not from jump. It’s not like this exactly brand-spankin’-new for me either– it’s been a while, just not quite on par with you. It just. It just wasn't our time… I want it to be perfect, I want it to last,” Tony discloses, hand coming up to cup at Peter’s face, which Peter knows must be blossoming into a smile under the older man’s hand.

“It was. It is.”

(It will be.)

Tony kisses him and it’s nice. Normally you wouldn’t think of ‘nice’ as being a word suitable for describing being kissed by Tony Stark, but it's near enough for this. Maybe not a perfect word, no, not as the kiss lingers and unfolds like a morning glory in the light. Peter doesn't merely let it happen; he tries his best to reciprocate, to not just welcome the slow, sweet slide of lips on his but to imitate it, reward it, rewire it into something more intimate still, until he's got Tony practically speaking in tongues as Peter smiles into him, filling and refilling the scant hair's breadth between them with so much joy and gentle breath.

Okay, yeah, maybe 'nice' doesn't cover it.

"Hey, kid," Tony’s voice vibrates inside the little bubble they find themselves in. "You hungry?"

Peter pretends to think even as the older man backs off and grins, eyes crinkling.

"Nah," Peter replies seriously, quietly, and without question. He meets those eyes. "I'm satisfied."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your support and comments. They are so appreciated!
> 
> You can find me at [ibby-writes](https://ibby-writes.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, and Fey on [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/feyrelay)!
> 
> <3


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